Flight
by Moa in the Moon
Summary: The story that started it all- Sandor and Sansa flee during the Battle of the Blackwater and head North. They are confronted not only with themselves, but a strange magic that is shifting Winterfell. Chapters will be posted in increments of five until they are current. The story continues.
1. Chapters 1-5

1) Cages

A disarming stillness was looming and crackling in the air; a beautiful, delicate moment in the midst of cries on the horizon, a thousand green fires burning. Pinkish wisps of light were curling back for the bruise of night. The pink danced on the clouds, almost sweet, nearly serene, were it not that the light was a distant reflection of fire in Blackwater Bay. Sansa could feel the pain throughout her body, a twisting and biting ache that turned through her. A nightmare made real and constant, her waking life a strange dream. She was not only a foreigner in King's Landing, but a trespasser in her own life. Her lips, for instance, were now lacerated and raw when once they were soft and pleasing. Her eyes held a great, heaving sorrow. She felt brittle and pained; the little bird with broken wings, trapped in a cage. She could scarce think of anything but herself, in spite of the situation raging outside. Like all things cloistered and made invisible, the outside world couldn't truly reach her.

She began her prayers, singing them to the Gods as her hands quickly moved through her wooden chests. Her heart began pounding loudly, jumping into her throat. She had no idea what she was doing; she pulled out what she imagined a practical wardrobe would be. She eschewed her silks for linens and plain weaves. She didn't have any rough-hewn fabrics to take with her. What was practical for a lady was nearly useless out in the world. She hurried through her things, feeling the eyes of The Hound upon her.

Sandor stared at her, his heart a swollen beast pacing the cage of his chest. Seven fucking hells, he thought as he looked on. His head was aching with the leftover dregs of panic and bad memories. All of that fucking fire. The fucking river is on fire. He was drunk on sour wine and knew that he had crossed every boundary, was guilty of the most vile of betrayals.

Fuck the king.

Save the little bird.

Sansa pulled her bag shut and spun around to look at Sandor.

"Ser, I believe I am ready."

Sandor would normally have protested being called "Ser", but couldn't bear to correct her this once. He was in such a state of wonder and express terror that it was all he could do to keep his mind focused on what he must do: keep her alive and deliver her home.

She stepped into the center light of her cage and was lit by a few meager candles. A quiet and pale light played upon her features, softening her visage to look like that of some angel or other creature. Her fire red hair wasn't burning; it was the soothing light of the sun, red flowers in the springtime, ripe apples on the branch. Sandor was aghast at himself. For a moment all of the hard things within him were toppled over violently. He was disarmed by her. A great hound pulled to shreds by a little song bird.

He pulled his cloak off and threw it at her.

"We can't let anyone know who you are. Put it on."

She looked up at him and pulled the cloak around her; the same cloak that he had offered her when she was humiliated in court. She suddenly realized the he wouldn't hurt her, no, he could not. She looked him straight in the face and walked toward him. She outstretched her hand and put it onto the burnt half of his face, for the first time feeling brave and free.

Sandor locked eyes with her and felt the small palm on his face, knew she was on tip toes to brush his cheeks. He grunted and turned away from her, instructing them that they must leave now. He could not have allowed her to see his eyes glaze over with a drop of salt water.

2. Movement

It was a full night, the air heavy and pendulous, not a cloud nor a star to be seen. The entire sky was like a dye-vat, depthless and undulating. They were a single black figure moving quickly and quietly through the woods, The Hound and Sansa upon Stranger's back.

Sansa dared not take in a breathe that was too heavy; she sat as still as possible, rocking back and forth on the horses back. She was concealed under the white cloak, looking all of the part of a refugee. For all of the nightmare of leaving King's Landing and making it into the wilderness, she felt more at peace than she had felt since she left Winterfell. Even while in the midst of fleeing, she was for the first time not completely alone. No matter how unfavorable her situation was, she had nothing to fear. There would be no fists pummeled into her back, no hands flying across her face. She was free from humiliation and knew that no matter what occurred, she would not be abused out on this road. She would not be beaten and choked, made to witness horror after horror. She felt more like a lady out in the wilderness with this strange and frightening man than she had even felt in court.

Sandor kept one hand cautiously around her small waist, the other in control of the reigns. He kept the hand touching Sansa unflinchingly still, not allowing a single joint to twitch or to move. He'd never felt that his hand had been in such danger before; it felt like it was on fireóit was screaming and crying out. It was this hand that Sansa did not push away or reticulate from. It was this hand that could feel, beneath his white cloak, the small movements of her body, the way she readjusted as they rode. Every so often she would lean her entire weight onto his hand and stomach, shifting in the saddle, setting his entire person aflame.

The only fire that he didn't fear.

The pair kept quiet, not exchanging a single word since they left the city walls. Sansa was absorbed with the sound of the journey; the horse's hooves crunching the earth beneath his feet, the music of the trees speaking in the wind, the sound of birds crying out. She kept her mind awake by playing small games with herself, trying to guess the kind of birds that were chirping in the forest. She would also try to lean upon Sandor, undetected. She was afraid that he would get annoyed if she rested too heavily on him, think that she was being ungrateful and weak. She would take painstaking efforts to slowly and cautiously rest her waist upon the hand that supported her side-she knew he didn't trust that she could ride for any long stretch of time. She would move her body back slowly, changing the curve of her spine by mere degrees until she was flush with the front of The Hounds body. She'd feel almost comfortable there and hoped that Sandor didn't notice her beneath his chain mail and armor.

The two rode, perfectly alone.

Sandor's hand involuntarily moved with a small twitch in his joints. It broke Sansa from her lolling fascination with the forest around her. Her body stiffened, terrified that Sandor was angry that she was leaning too heavily on his armor. She knew that he thought she was just a silly bird and imagined that he must think her pathetic. She straightened up her back until his hand barely touched her side. She was disappointed.

Seven bloody fucking hells. Bloody fucking hand, he thought, his mind suddenly wild.

He'd nearly imagined that she might have enjoyed him holding her steady. He had to remind himself that he was a mere beast spiriting a high born lady out of her situation. How could he ever have imagined she would enjoy anything about him?

3. Reality

Who in the fucking seven hells do I think I'm kidding? Sandor Clegane thought to himself, a dagger of pain shooting through his chest. Everything in the world had once felt- what? Manageable? Navigable? Did he ever truly fancy himself to be the king of his own destiny? Of course not, not in a thousand and one bloody fucking hells. He was a well-trained dog, and it only occurred to him outside of the city wall on his way to someplace safe and distant and fireless that he had no idea what he was doing. The world loomed up around him, every noise heard on this back road sounded like the explosion of wildfire on Blackwater Bay. He felt, for the first time in his memory, completely ineffective. He was as small as a seed in a vast field. Where he'd once felt completely on guard he felt like every angle left him vulnerable. Every chink in his armor felt exposed, his head felt the open wind around him and he shivered. He felt a as though thousand eyes were on him and was sure that there were spies on the road ready to murder him and take the little bird as a keepsake, a hostage, a chess piece.

His first impulse was to do something sudden and mad. Were he on his own he would have had the horse up to his fastest gallop, long sword out of its sheath. He'd dismantle any man who dared near him. Instead he delicately shifted the girl who was valiantly fighting sleep in the small of his hand, barely on the edge of his fingertips. He felt a sickness moving through him, worse that the most awful hangover he'd ever had. It even eclipsed the bad memories of childhood, of fighting, of the constant reminder of his deformity. He felt incapable and trapped, like an idiot: like a dog gone mad with fever that should be killed by his master.

Who the fuck am I to have stolen this little bird?

Who the fuck am I to have left the field of battle?

He knew the sun would break soon and had no idea how he would contend with sleep, with shelter. The things that he hadn't bothered to flesh out were gnawing at him, masticating the insides of his brains. He knew he couldn't keep riding forever; he couldn't keep the little bird perched near him indefinitely. He'd have to sleep. He couldn't allow his senses to rot with exhaustion, not could he allow the little bird to be out of his sight and arm range for even a second.

He felt like a fool; worse than a fool: he felt for the first time like a true fiend. His entire life of harsh neutrality and ambivalence to the smell and sight of death was washed out in a few small hours. For the first time ever, he was truly afraid for a life.

"Wake now, little bird, enough riding for the night." He barked at her. She tensed forward suddenly, though she'd been awake and uncomfortable since she he shook her off of his hand. "I'm going to take the horse and tie him to a tree. You're not to move or to make a sound."

Sansa hadn't slept at all this night. She'd watched as sky had changed from total black to a sooty gray, the first sign of the morning's light appearing. She shook her head to try to communicate that she understood and would comply. She dared not look at his face, for fear of his seeing how ridiculous and frightened she was, but stared forward into the forest and the back of Stranger's head.

Stupid fucking dog. She won't even look at you.

She wouldn't blink, wouldn't move, but rather sat shivering. With The Hound off of the horse she was suddenly very cold and felt very alone in the woods. She'd never felt so alone before. She choked on a sudden sob that clogged her throat.

"Quiet, girl!" Sandor hissed without thinking. She regrets coming out here with me. What have I done?

Sansa quickly tensed and silenced herself, but could not keep a deluge of hot tears escape down her face. She sat on the horse crying and shivering as Sandor finished securing the horse to a tree.

Sandor worked quickly, thankful to the gods (if there were any) that he had stumbled upon cave in the middle of a thick wood. He'd left the main road hours ago and hoped that he had truly escaped, undetected. As he worked he dared not take his eyes off of her. He watched her crying.

I suppose I'd do that too if I had only a wretched beast to trust.

The Hound pulled her down from the horse. She clung onto him, pulling tightly around his neck. She placed her head near the burnt side of his face, burying herself into his skin. She was violently shaking, pulling herself as close as she could to him. She wanted to wail but dared not, so she instead muffled herself into his neck.

She so badly wanted to cry out and thrash around. The sudden quiet of the pre-dawn hour caused more terror in her than she could have imagined as they rode out of King's Landing. She'd fed her bravery with adrenaline and the excitement of liberation. Now that the night was ending she had recovered her normal senses and was quite aware of the precariousness of her escape. She now couldn't care whether or not she seemed absurd or childish to The Hound. She could only cry and cry, as though the tears would never stop. She'd lost all awareness of herself and was a figure composed only of fear and mourning.

She didn't at all notice that Sandor supported the back of her head with his massive hand and held her safe, away from all harm.

4. Shelter

He'd instantly come to realize that he couldn't afford to have any doubts about what he has done. Deserter, traitor, bastard Hound and murdereróit didn't matter. Nothing did. This little heaving body shocked him into himself. He carried her into the mouth of the cave, crouching down below the ceiling.

The inside was dry, the ground surprisingly even. He felt a surge of relief: the cave showed no signs of former tenants, or worse, current inhabitants. The opening was almost completely obscured by years of the buildup of brush, scrubs and thickets. Outside, the forest was almost as impenetrable as the walls of King's Landing.

"There, there little bird," he managed to whisper in his raspy voice, "you're safe now. I won't hurt you."

She stopped her sniffling as he set her down as gently as possible.

Sansa looked up at The Hound, her face red and stained with tears.

"Thank you, ser."

"I'm no ser."

Sansa pulled a small piece of cloth out of her sleeve and began wiping at her eyes and at her face, smoothing her hair back, trying to gain composure. Sandor immediately knew her handkerchief; it was the one which he had given to her. Her own blood had deeply stained it.

It pained Sandor to see this high born lady standing in this dimly lit cave, wiping her face with a cloth stained with her own blood. He was aware of where they were standing and where she would have to sleep. There was nothing with which he could improvise some comforts. There was just dirt, rocks and dried leaves-nothing so much as a pillow to keep her little head from touching the ground.

"Stay there, little bird. Don't you move an inch or make a noise. Don't breathe too hard. I am going to step away from you for but a moment. Do not move."

Sandor looked at her and then turned quickly, moving quietly for such a large beast. He went outside and pulled the saddle and the blanket off of Stranger, as well as the satchel that Sansa had packed. His panic had soothed into an almost beautiful urgency to take care of her. He felt something stirring in him that wasn't pity, but something more elevated. He was such a stranger to his own emotions that he could scarce say what that feeling was. Bringing the meager supplies back into the cave, he saw her standing as quiet as a great tree in the Godswood, as still as a summer day. Her face was blackened with exhaust, with bruises. The great scarlet gash on her lips seemed to him more painful than all of his scars combined.

Sansa stood perfectly still even after he returned. She was nearly puzzled, watching him move delicately before her. He put his large saddle on the ground and then spread out two layers of the horse blankets, fashioning a bed out of his supplies. He'd stuffed a few handfuls of dried leaves below the blankets, doing his best to plump and soften this awful little bed.

"Little bird, I've some bad news for you. I cannot leave you alone in here; it is too dangerous, too stupid. You'll have to sleep with me." Shit. "Rather, you'll sleep in here and I will sleep at the mouth of the cave. You can use my cloak as a blanket, and, uh-" He saw her eyes well up with tears again. He felt hopeless. The girl would rather die.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, I cannot repay your kindness."

The Hound grunted loudly and almost cracked a smile.

The poor little bird had been so abused she took this pathetic cave for kindness. At that moment, he'd give of his entire life to get her into a proper bed. And he knew he would.

She dried her tears once again with his handkerchief. She smiled at him and knelt onto the bed he'd just made for her. She removed his cloak and lay down, covering herself with it. Despite being quite covered, she shivered. The hound turned away from her and positioned himself at the mouth of the cave. His back was to her so that he might observe anything or anyone that might approach them. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other acting as a pillow. The ground was hard, yet no other bed had ever seemed sweeter.

What a fucking idiot I am. I will be the death of us. She gives me one smile and I decide I'll end my life for her, give her anything.

But of course, he would have done it even without the smile.

Sansa knew that she should try to force herself to sleep, but could not. Instead of a beautiful sunrise outside, a heavy rainstorm had broken out. It was nearly as dark as night, but she could not feel comforted. She felt terribly alone. It wasn't that she missed anyone or anything-not her big bed, not her staff of handmaidens. She felt the divide that The Hound had put between them. She stared at his back. He lay on his side away from her, nearly covering half of the cave's opening with his own body. If his brother is The Mountain, than he is The Wall. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't cry or start sniveling again. She'd be strong and good so that he would have no more reason to think that she was just a stupid little bird.

She shut her eyes and tried to keep them closed. She felt hopeless.

"Ser?" she called out quietly.

The Hound didn't respond. She felt stupid. She knew he must still be awake or somewhere near conscious. She sighed loudly. She didn't know if she could say the word she needed to.

"Sa-sa-sandor?"

Sandor grunted and his eyes opened wide. He'd never heard her say his name.

"Yes, little bird, what do you want?"

"Um, nothing, I'm just terribly cold." She half-lied. Yes, she was cold, but she could hardly care for that.

"You've my cloak. I've nothing else to give you, go to sleep."

"Sandor, please?"

"I've already told you-" He couldn't believe she'd said his name twice.

"No, it isn't that. I'm just, well, I'm just, uh-" She didn't want to say that words, but didn't know any other. "I'm just scared, I'm frightened."

"I told you, girl, I won't hurt you."

Sansa exhaled loudly. She didn't know what to do. For a moment she closed her eyes and remembered her father, thought of the way she would talk to him. She thought of her mother and the way she could melt strong, cool Eddard Stark.

"I don't want to sleep alone, Sandor. I want you near me. Please, ser-I mean, Sandor. Please. I cannot sleep here without you."

Sandor took in a sharp breathe. For a moment he panicked. He was sure that he was dead. They must have been intercepted on the road and killed. All of her prayers must have given him favor with the gods. He must be in the seven heavens.

But if he was, why would there be icy rain and cold, hard earth beneath his head?

He still forced himself to sound gruff: "What do you want from me, girl?"

She exhaled as loud as she could. Even in the wilderness she could go into the fit of a high born girl.

"I want-I, uh, I want you to please make yourself nearer to me. I am very cold and would very much like it if you wouldó that is to say, I should expect that you would come and lay down and keep me warm so that I do not freeze. Yes, you must keep me warm." She became haughty as she progressed.

Yes, this was the fit of a highborn girl. Sandor barely held back a laugh at that.

"Well, my lady demands it. I must submit."

Sandor stood as tall as he could without hitting his head on the ceiling on the cave, walking hunched over towards her. He expected to lie down on the dirt beside her and was surprised that she moved out of the way so that he could lay down on her little bed with her. He drew in a shaky breathe.

"My lady, I will sleep facing the entrance of the cave. You don't need to move."

"No!" she suddenly protested. "I mean, no, I have told you that I am cold. You shall sleep with my back to you so that you may still observe the mouth of the cave but keep me warm from the drafts."

Sandor didn't dare protest. No matter what his better judgment said to him, he was now under her direction. He lay down, still allowing her all of the blanket and stuffing of leaves below her. She was so small beside him that it scarce mattered where she was, he would still see out of the cave. His heart was beating harder than it ever had in any fight- his breathe choking in his throat.

Sansa decided that no matter what the consequences she would not freeze in some cave. She suddenly remembered Sandor's gentle hand on the back of her head when she was sobbing just earlier. She took in a big breathe, steadied herself, and inched her way closer to him until her body was flush with his. And then, without asking, she pulled his large arm away from him, and wrapped herself up in his protection.

Sandor's body froze, as did Sansa's. They both laid there like stones for what seemed like a thousand winters and summers. Sandor felt her gently squeeze his arm.

He pulled her towards him and placed his face into her hair. He breathed her in, certain once again that he had entered the seven heavens. Within a moment he could feel that she had fallen asleep. He held her in his arm and gently kissed her hair, his face finally safe within the flames.

5. Barking

Sansa felt something moving across her face. She slowly opened her eyes and brought a small hand to her face.

And then she let out of a blood curdling scream.

"Seven fucking hells!" Sandor cried out as he went completely vertical, nearly breaking his head on the cave's ceiling, pulling out his sword as he strode over her, out of the cave. He erupted into a panic. He couldn't see anything. His brain went numb and his body went into a fit of instinct and reaction. Where the fuck are they? Who the fuck is here? He turned to charge back into the cave.

"What the fuck did you see? Who was there? Are you hurt?" He realized he was frightening her. She looked up at him with massive saucer eyes, lips trembling. You'll listen to her cry every few hours if you aren't careful. She doesn't know any other way.

Sansa put her head into her hand. She was startled but she was fine. She felt like an idiot.

"Please, put your sword away. There was no one here."

"Then what happened?" What in his mind was meant to be a gentle question came out like a snarl.

"A frog ran across my face. It woke me up. I've never touched a frog before! I-I just-" She knew no other explanation and decided not even to try.

Sandor looked her in the eyes. She looked at his face, made wretched with rage. She'd awoken his primal urge to kill. He had his teeth bared as he breathed heavily. She was terrified by him and turned away.

Sandor was relieved but could not compose himself. He stood electrified, refusing to sheath his sword. His body heaved massive breathes. Buggering hells. Buggering little bird. He thought that he had awakened to an ambush, not a small frog hopping across her face. He had half a mind to go searching for the frog and rip its head off and smash it against a wall, just so his anger could be sated. He didn't even realize that he had curled his lips back to show all of his teeth, that he looked like a monster.

"Look at me, girl!"

He paused to sheath his sword, lowering himself to her face.

"Don't you ever wake up screaming again, girl! Not unless there is someone about to hurt you, someone that shouldn't be here. Never again. Do you hear me?" He didn't realize he was shouting, breathing hot breathe in her face. He couldn't control himself; he snarled and barked and growled. She sat before him, frightened. Gone was the confident girl of the night before who made demands of him. There now again was the girl he'd given his cloak or handkerchief to after she'd been beaten. There was the vulnerable, high born lady with the gaggle of attendants. There was the frightened little bird. "Bah!" He shouted into her face, turning away.

"Make yourself ready, we ride in a few moments."


	2. Chapters 6-10

6. The Sparrow and The Toad

The rain had abated, but the air was still carrying a cold knife in it. It was as though the air had been infused with shards of ice-glass. It was a wretched feeling, the way the cold would cut into her face. She could tell that Sandor had felt some guilt after he'd frightened her earlier. After he'd made Stranger ready, he'd fumbled around with her. He awkwardly refastened his cloak around her, shifting it on her shoulders, doing his best to offer her some comfort. His big hands moved around her neck. It was almost humorous to observe him while he fumbled around with the garment. For a moment he nearly looked like a big puppy, rather than a Hound.

They resumed their ritual of silence after he'd hoisted her onto the beast. He sat behind her, once again placing his steady hand on her side. They rode for hours in silence; once again they were nearly strangers. The sun had gone down and they were once again in complete and utter darkness, wading into the night cautiously. Only after the night had become thick and enveloping did he tighten his grip on her side. He pulled her in, away from the chill and the cold and the unknown blackness that shrouded their every movement. A light rain began falling again, pricking their skin with cold little needles. He told Sansa to pull her cloak up over her body and to wrap up as much as she could. She snuggled closer into him, a little bundle of cloth and shivers.

He pulled the reigns back suddenly, whispering "shhhhhh!" as he did so, pulling Sansa in. They had been moving increasingly off the main roads as they trudged on, so he was shocked to see a small farm house rising up before him. There wasn't a light or a sound that he could hear from it. Not a fire burning in the braziers, no animals crying out at the darkness. The gate looked dilapidated and worn out, falling to the side. Once again, a complete and utter vacancyóa strange gift two nights in a row.

Sandor didn't know how to feel about the house, didn't know what kind of danger it could possibly present. "Little bird, do not move."

Sandor jumped off of Stranger, removed his sword from the hilt, and led the horse carrying the little bird in through the ruined gate and into the enclosure of the front pen. The house was clearly abandoned, yes, but didn't show signs of a traumatic evacuation. Rather, it was the scene of time's natural progression on anything that was fabricated. Sandor's concern melted into a guarded suspicion.

He tried to calculate how far off of the main road he had travelled. He knew that they were riding North by Northwest, and they must be in or near Riverrun. They were miles and miles and miles off of the King's Road and he didn't feel as apprehensive of highwaymen or the King's Guard. He was more concerned about being a trespasser, forcing Sansa to watch him kill men to put a roof over her head. Little bird would never fucking approve of that sort of behavior.

He allowed himself to feel relief. There wasn't a sign of life in this house. It appeared, outside of its dilapidated appearance, to at least be outfitted to stay the night. He walked Stranger up onto the porch of the house and opened the small, cramped door to the inside. It was merely a small cottage. It was dark and quiet and motionless, filled with shadows. No moonlight penetrated in through the windows, which were all made of glass that was still intact. He tied Stranger to the front of the house and pulled Sansa off of him. She was still completely wrapped in his cloak, with no idea where she was.

This delighted him.

"I've not been able to find a cave for the night, little bird. This will have to do."

He carried her into the tiny home and unwrapped her. The darkness of her new surroundings startled her, and she pulled close to The Hound. He allowed her to burrow into him, but tried not to betray his position with her. He tried not to allow himself to feel excited that he would be with her in a proper home. He didn't want his actions to reveal that he was hoping that there was a real bed for her to sleep in, and perhaps an untouched cabinet of linens. He could hardly believe that was his sovereign wish.

Sansa's eyes were adjusting to the darkness. She drank in her surroundings, becoming more and more aware that this was a little home and not some shanty off of the road. She could make out, in the shadows, a set of cookware hanging from the wall and a fire pit dug out for the hearth. There was a divan and a table and cupboards. The place looked like it was made by little fairy people or was meant to be the home of one of her dollies. She suddenly felt like squealing loudly. They could build a fire tonight, stay warm and dry, and change clothing! She was so excited she couldn't help but blurt the first thing on her mind.

"You can make us a fire tonight!"

She realized that was quite a stupid ideaóand an awful thing to say.

"I'm sorry ser, I didn't think-" She quickly corrected herself.

Sandor grunted his rebuff. He considered her request for a moment. He couldn't really keep her in this place, cloistered in cold darkness. He knew that she wouldn't know how to make a fire and might end up setting the entire house ablaze, his nightmare. He knew how to build a fire quicklyóthere was no way he could refuse to do it.

"Do you think a big dog is afraid of some flames, little bird?" He grunted again. It was as though he was trying to choke down his fear. He could just grunt and grunt until it was shoved down so far within him he wouldn't feel it. He quickly threw himself into building the fire, his hands shaking as he began stacking wood in the hearth. There were twigs and dried leaves in a bucket by the wood which he used to stuff his pile. All of the necessary supplies were laid out. He could hardly believe it. There were even a few drops of white fire, an oily compound that would ignite the fire if a flint touched it. Once it was prepared all he had to do was to strike the two flint rocks together and get a single spark. It would give the little bird warmth and light and comfort. He must.

He missed his first strike completely, and each successive strike after that was meager.

Sansa watched him carefully hitting the rocks together. She'd seen her Septa light a fire once when she was a child. She had also seen her brothers light fires when Eddard allowed them to camp outside on cool nights. She wondered if she could be of any help. As soon as she was going to offer to try to assist him, a single spark leaped from the rocks, kissing the white fire, igniting the wood and kindling. Within a moment a handsome fire danced in the hearth. The Hound stepped quickly away from it, turning his face, giving him some safe distance.

He caught Sansa staring at him, a wide smile on her face.

Seven buggering fucking hells- this girl will be the death of me.

She began opening drawers, looking for candles. She was delighted to find a few dozen hand dipped wax candles in one of the first drawers that she opened. She immediately set forth to begin lighting each one. The room quickly illuminated. She realized that she had never prepared her own candles before. She felt so accomplished.

Sandor watched her move in the absurdly soft candlelight. He felt like a hulking fool standing there in the room. Even though she looked disheveled, she was still delicate and beautiful and radiant. Her red hair was glowing. He pitied her while he stared. She should have some fucking handsome knight with heróa highborn man, a hero. Not a flea ridden mutt that looks like an ogre.

"Aren't you as pleased as I am, Sandor," she squeaked, "isn't this wonderful?"

"Aye little bird, it will do."

"Can we explore the rest of it? Can we stay here?"

To Sansa's surprise she didn't even once consider that they might be trespassing on someone else's home. It wasn't her former privilege that made her forget her manners; it was her hunger and her exhaustion and her want for somewhere safe to stay.

The Hound consented to her desire to explore the house, taking care to keep her within an arm's reach. He kept the other hand on the hilt of his sword. She wasn't nearly as cautious. In the kitchen they had found dried meats and fruits, and a to The Hound's delight, an entire cask of summer ale. She'd found dried and sugared lemon rinds and a flagon of orange water, an infusion that kept water always cool and fresh.

She soon bounded into the bedroom holding a candle out for light, completely and totally immersed in her jubilance. In the middle of the room the room there was a grand, four poster bed. There were drawers which still contained linens, as well as small clothes and sleep ware and roughhewn dresses. There was a brush and a water bowl and a mint plant upon a table. There was even a hearth dug into this room.

"It is like a fairy-song!"

Sandor agreedóit was like a fairy song. It reminded him of some story he'd heard as a child. He hadn't thought back to those songs and stories for so long. He remembered a tale his sister would whisper to him, about the toad and the sparrow and their wedding night. They found the abandoned home of old Mr. Badger and decided that was where they'd build their life. He couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to remember that old, stupid story. A fucking stupid story.

Sansa began to sing to herself a little song:

"Little sparrow loved the toad / who explored the open road

Found a hole to lay their head / and the next day found a bed.

How strange they must be / and how odd they must seem

Doesn't matter either way for / this is their wedding day."

Her delight filled the room.

7. Fairies

"My lord, shall we to bed?"

Sandor looked down at her and nearly swallowed his tongue as she pulled herself onto the large bed. It was made up with old pillows and soft, deteriorating down blankets. His heart began beating in double time, though it scarcely mattered. There was nothing that she could do to convince him to take anything from her that he could not quickly give back. He'd thrown himself into the madness of saving her, fully aware that she would be the death of him. A fine death, too.

"Yes, my lady, to bed with you. I shall sleep at the foot of the bed, like a faithful dog."

Sansa sat up straight, looking deeply at him. She wanted something, but wasn't sure what it was. She felt strangely sad when she observed him. His scars began to look less and less ghastly. She could recall being a young girl, thinking of all of the dashing knights she'd dream of. He didn't at all resemble the pretend-knights that she would come up with. The Gods knew that she would never have chosen him out of a line-up. But at that time she'd never been forced to live in a cage in between beatings that left her broken and bleeding and worst of all, frightened. At that time she hadn't seen her father murdered, her family disappear. She hadn't been a forgotten being, stuck up in a room, helpless.

She watched the man who had rescued her and felt instincts of her own.

While The Hound's instincts were to kill and to protect, she felt something of her own which she couldn't name. Her mind was made of fuzzy clouds pierced through by a few rays of clarity. She truly felt like she had been washed with some deep and thick salt water; she was awake in this strange little fairy cottage with this man. She stared at him, watching as steadily as she could.

She stood softly and approached him.

"My lord, you shouldn't sleep heavily armored tonight. I can't bear the thought of you being enclosed in all of that metal."

Sandor grunted. Sansa wanted to scream when he grunted his replies to her!

"I'm no lord, little bird. I'm your protector. Don't think on me at all. There isn't even a squire to remove my chainmail. I shall turn and you can get change into a night dress and get under the covers. I'll not disturb you."

This time, Sansa snorted. She'd call him what she wished, if only for this night in the fairy-house.

"My lord, I can remove your mail. I had once helped my brothers. Please, it will pain me to think of you sleeping in discomfort."

And it will fucking pain me if you feel that, little bird.

How could he not consent?

"If you think you can handle a big dog's chains, by all means."

He outstretched his arms. Sansa hadn't considered how much his chain mail would have weighed. The armor that she had assisted Robb and Theon and Jon with was light, made for play fights and sparring. This armor, on the other hand, looked as though it weighed as much as the Hound himself. It was thick and tied in a thousand places. She stood examining his armor, puzzled.

Sandor would have been amused, had he not felt such regret at allowing himself to consent to this. He knew that he was making a mistake and felt a hot flushing below his face. He'd only allow her to believe that she was his miraculous comforter, some battle-field Septa, and then he would lie on the floor and ignore her. He swore that even if she kicked him in the side or held a hot poker to his face, he wouldn't give into anything else she requested. It was strange- for the first time he had the freedom of will to do whatever he wanted, and would force himself to reject the only thing he could possibly desire. He'd forced himself to do such distasteful things under King Joffrey-yet taking away a stitch of her dignity of ability to marry properly seemed worse than a thousand bloody killings. He'd strangle two hundred men with their insides at this moment if he could assure that the little bird would never have to do anything which she would ever come to regret.

Sansa gently pulled at a leather clasp on his shoulder, slowly loosening out a large shoulder plate. She pulled it off as daintily as possible, trying not to betray her weakness.

"Give me that thing, girl. I can help you enough." He began pulling the heavier pieces off, shaking her off of him.

"No, please, I wish to be of some help. You've done so much for me."

"I've done nothing for you, girl, that some handsomer knight wouldn't have done in two seconds. You owe me nothing."

Sansa did not protest, but gently moved his hand away. She insisted on pulling off all of his armor, only allowing him to set aside the truly heavy pieces. She worked slowly and methodically, small fingers unlacing his gauntlets as though they were the laces to some handmade dress. She pulled off layer after layer of metal and leather, until finally he stood in a dirty, plain linen shirt, his pants and his boots. She lowered herself to the floor and began unlacing his boots.

Sandor had to look away. His heart felt like it was about to explode. He'd been undressed by a squire a thousand and one times. It left him feeling mostly annoyed and hurried-he felt that those boys were useless and would do better as targets during drills. He had never in his life, though, been undressed by a woman. Not even his mother. His tyrant brother would force him to do everything for himself, not allowing him the joy of tenderness and comfort. Being undressed by a highborn lady felt like a great crime that he was secretly gleeful to commit.

His boots now off, Sansa stood up and turned her back to him, waiting expectedly.

"What is it little bird? Finally tired of playing squire?"

"No, Sandor. I cannot unfasten my dress without a maid. I shall not sleep with it on, two nights in a row. You must undress me."

As soon as Sansa said that, she drew in a big breathe, shutting her eyes. The Hound stood without moving or taking in a drop of air. He hadn't a single word to say. Seven fucking hells, seven fucking gods, buggering death-

"Little bird, I shall not do that. My hands are too big and I'll rip your pretty little dress to bits."

"It is already nearly ruined. Please, I shall die of discomfort if I am to wear this dress another night!"

He stood in only his britches and his linen tunic, a giant hound squirming like a little boy. He'd seen the body of whores before, but had never stood so vulnerable before a woman. He'd never removed a piece of clothing from a woman. The whores which he'd slept with would simply pull up their skirts and allow you a place to fuck them. Never was one of them tender, much less needing something other than coin.

He slowly reached out and touched a delicate silk fastener on her back.

"Are these what need to be untied?"

Sansa nodded.

Sandor pulled at the little blue silk string as gently as possible, until it came apart and a small part of her dress loosened. The backside of her dress was done up in these little silk bows. His fingers slowly moved his way down her back, unfastening the little silk bows one at a time. The dress began loosening by degrees, until her back was exposed completely. He'd expected her skin to look like ice-milk, smooth and white, but was disgusted to see it covered in gnarling purple and yellow bruises, lacerations and scabby cuts. He'd seen that kind of flesh before, but it was only on him, and he only saw it when he bathed. He felt his hands balling into tight fists. He imagined the King's neck caught between his fingers.

Sansa noticed him pausing. He was looking at the gifts that Joffrey's men had given her. He heard a low rumbling coming from behind her. The Hound was snarling like a dog gone mad. She couldn't turn, but held her dress to her chest. She suddenly felt very self-conscious and only wanted to put on a sleeping dress and bury herself into the bed.

"I'm sorry I didn't protect you better, little bird." I should have committed treason and killed that little prick in front of the entire court, splashed his guts all of his whore mother.

Sansa suddenly felt like her skin was blotting paper. She felt stained, embarrassed, made worthless. She lowered her head and turned, raising her eyes to meet his gaze.

"Please, don't. You saved me. You never hurt me."

"No little bird. Nor would I ever hurt you."

She raised her face to meet his. He stared down at her. She could see that the scar on his face wasn't the only one which he carried. Under the thin linen of his tunic she could see the raised outlines of deep scars. His body was ravaged by a thousand and one bad fights; a life spent being a hard man. Without speaking a word, she noiselessly moved past him, approached the bed and pulled out her sleeping dress. She let her blue silk dress drop to the floor and she slipped the night-gown over her head. Sandor kept turned away from her, refusing to violate her privacy.

She climbed upon the bed, and demanded that he turn to face her.

He watched the little bird as she watched him. No words were exchanged. The two just glanced back and forth at one another, neither opening their mouths to speak. Sandor was trembling like a man who had barely escaped an axe blow to the head.

Sansa gently reclined on the bed, considering what it is that she should do. Truth be told, she had no idea what was to be done with her on this night. She felt self-conscious and angry at all of her injuries. She also felt very alone in herself and unable to come up with anything to say. The only thing that came to mind sounded ridiculous and she couldn't dream of saying the words. She was fantasizing about the fairy stories that she had heard from her Septa as a child, the ones that began with an injured princess being healed instantly with a kiss and a knight proclaiming his love for her. She thought perhaps she could nudge him into beginning this process. In the little fairy cottage, she could only hope that something would relieve the nightmares she had suffered.

She so badly wanted to be healed.

She closed her eyes and blurted out the words.

"Sandor, are you in love with me? Do you love me?"

She didn't open her eyes, so she didn't see his eyes open to three times the size they normally were, his jaw go slack, revealing all of his teeth. She did, though, hear him suck in a huge breathe of air. She felt him steady himself as though he were about to block a death blow. Do I love you little bird? Was Blackwater Bay on fire when I spirited you away? Is winter coming? Am I disfigured, is my horse named Stranger? Do I love you? I love only you, you are the only thing which I have ever loved. You are my seven Gods and seven heavens, you are my first thought in the morning and the last thing that I think of before I go to sleep. You are the only thing that makes me feel fear. Yes, little bird. You are my love and I would gladly give my life for yours.

He grunted.

Sansa opened her eyes. They looked like two shallow tide pools, full of sadness.

"Please, Sandor, do you love me?"

"Little bird, it doesn't matter how I feel. You need to go to sleep and dream of some handsome knight who can give you everything you could ever desire. I am just your dog, nothing else."

"Sandor, please. Save me. Please. Come close to me. I cannot be here alone."

Against his will and against the promises that he had made to himself he was striding across the room, making it to her bedside in but a moment. He was lost to the world. He was lost to himself. Sansa took his hand and pulled him into her bed. He consented without any effort. He knew it was only a matter of time before he injured her, becoming one of her regrets, and he was powerless. He pulled her close to him, he felt like a man possessed. He must be dreaming in this little fairy house. Nothing mattered for the moment.

He brought his face close to hers, locking eyes.

He thought of a million sword blows that he had delivered without hesitation.

"Yes."

Sansa's little lip trembled.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, little bird, I love you. Can't you see it has broken me completely?"

Sansa gently caressed his face as he placed a steady palm onto his unscarred cheek. She kept reminding herself that at this moment all she needed to do was simply breathe.

Sandor gave up the idea of control. He placed his hand on her waist, feeling the weak clothe that separated him from her. He felt her smallness, her helplessness, her fragility. He gently ran his fingertips up her back, starring her straight in the eyes. He closed his eyes as she raised her lips to his, breathing life into him. He pulled her on top of him and kissed her deeply, his eyes smashed shut.

"Oh Gods, little bird, I love you. Gods I love you. I love you I love you I love you." He declared to her in his raspy voice.

Sansa kissed him as hard as she could.

"I love you, too."

8. SheWolf

The words burned him. Hearing her say it felt more fearsome than a fresh wound. It cut into him, twisting a blade into his side. He longed to beg her to say it until the morning sun rose in the sky. He remembered hearing her say the words to Joffrey hundreds of time, the way her voice sounded dead and broken and empty. Her voice now sounded rich and full and happy. He was taken aback by her carelessness, the easy way she transitioned from her nightmare of captivity to- whatever this was.

He lay still, letting her put soft little kisses on his lips and on his face. She'd alternate kissing his cheeks, switching back and forth from the ruined side to the one which was at least not completely destroyed. He moved his hands on her back, feeling her waist. He made note of every part of her that touched him-her dainty feet lightly kicking his shins below his kneecaps, her own knees pressed into his thighs. He tried not to make note of the other things, those things which he wouldn't allow himself to consider.

Sansa was growing braver by the moment. She'd remembered something that Cersei had told her about having powers stronger than tears. She began feeling like a conqueror, having The Hound splayed out beneath her-yet she knew she didn't want him defeated. She only wanted him to yield to her. In every moment up to this one she had been controlled, lead, treated with deference or contempt based only on her station in life and her claim. Lying upon The Hound's chest, she felt like none of those things existed.

She took her hand and lowered it slowly, putting it beneath his tunic. Whenever she'd do something different, The Hound would suck in the air as though he had been struck by surprise. She carefully ran her hand up his chest, tracing her fingers on the rivers and raised beds of his deep scar tissue.

Her fingers felt soothing.

He'd take this moment to his grave. He'd gladly expire having been given that touch. She didn't recoil from him, didn't jump at his scars. He felt oddly safe, a feeling that he'd known people to obsess about which he'd never experienced for himself. The weak linen sleeping dress which she wore felt so weak against her skin. He could shred it off of her without the slightest effort, yet he barely brushed it with his fingers. He'd never had to do anything which required any delicacy. He'd be forever glad that he'd been given these opportunities to act kindly.

Sansa suddenly sat up on top of him, putting both of her legs around him, balancing herself with her hands on his chest. She sat upon him looking triumphant and staid, like a warrior queen who was riding with an army that outnumbered her enemy 20-to-1. For a moment the little bird looked all the part of a she-wolf.

Without thinking, he tossed her off of him, down onto the bed.

Sansa laughed playfully and tried to climb back atop him. Once again he shoved her off. The Hound's features had quickly turned from soft to stoic. Without saying a word, he was off of the bed, gathering up his boots and his sword from the ground and left the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Without thought, Sansa's face turned red, and she began sobbing out of control.

9. Trees

No, he kept practicing in his head, steadying in his body, reclaiming himself. No no no no no. He felt deeply ashamed and doomed at the same time. The impossibility of the situation that he had with her had become instantly apparent when he shoved her off of him. He made for the door, slamming it as hard as he could behind him, hoping that he could jam the door and keep her there until the morning. He strode out of the door and into the coldness of the night, letting all of the frigid air hit him, calming his body immediately. He dropped his boots on the ground and shoved his feet in them, fumbling with the laces. He held his sword and without warning let out a howl, hitting it over and over against a tree. He growled and cussed and swung and swung, over and over. Wood chips were flying all around him, hitting him in the face, splintering in the cold air. With all the noise he was making he couldn't hear the little bird wailing inside.

I'll get her someplace safe and I'll take the fucking black, he thought, I'll wear the black of the night's watch and then just fucking disappear. She'll forget about you as soon as some handsome faced knight claims her. She only thinks she loves you. Stupid fucking bird.

A kind bird, but still stupid. You'll ruin her fucking life-you'll take her maidenhead and she'll be nothing. She won't be able to marry any man then. She won't want you. Who the fuck would? She'll grow to resent you. She'll think you were a worse curse than that king of hers.

While hitting the tree and swinging, something awful happened. Sometime while snarling and barking and baying, big saltwater tears started falling down his face. He was choking on his awful tears, coughing and spitting onto the earth. He didn't have it within him to swing any more. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and for the first time in his life he gave himself leave to cry.

He pressed his ruined face into his hands, feeling the scar tissue, the patches where his hair no longer grew. He allowed himself to remember-fully remember-being just a boy when his brother shoved his face into the brazier. He remembered a life spent in fear and terror, his hardening, his final triumph in silencing everything that went on inside of him with wine and blood. His tears weren't like hers-they weren't cried out of frustration or sadness. His were because of something that was ultimately broken, irreparable. He heaved and shook in the wind. He felt ashamed, weak, useless. He stood and slammed his fists against the tree, hitting his head against it. He felt his skin opening up, hot blood flowing down his face. The wind picked up and a rain began to fall, leaving him bloodied, salted and chilled to the bone. He didn't have any more strength to howl, so he just whimpered. Imagine, such a big beast reduced to such a stature.

Sansa pulled and pulled at the door. She'd managed to nearly ruin the frame when he had slammed it. She tried and tried at it, until finally it began to budge. When it opened it took her by surprise, and she nearly fell over. She'd pulled the cloak around her and slipped her shoes onto her feet and marched out into the night. The rain was biting and cold. Stranger was whinnying like mad. She could barely make out the hound at the edge of the wood. She could see that she was on his knees. Without thinking, she ran to him, muddying her feet and her skirts as she did so.

"What are you doing? Are you harmed?" She cried out, not stopping to consider that he might have run into someone out here. She flung herself at him. On his knees he was her height, made slightly smaller by his hunched shoulders.

"Don't touch me, bird-girl." He snapped at her.

She was taken aback. She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, grabbing as hard as she could.

"You aren't going to tell me what to do. No one is ever again. I'm a wolf of Winterfell, I'm to be regarded!" She felt stupid saying that, but didn't know what else to do. He pulled himself away from her, refusing to turn his head. She grabbed him once again.

He stood suddenly, turning towards her, snarling at her.

"You don't scare me."

"I don't?"

"No! You wouldn't hurt meóyou couldn't even if you tried."

"Oh, no? What did I tell you about trusting anyone?"

She paused, confused.

"Run into the house. Now."

She drew in a breath and decided she wouldn't allow him to ever frightened again.

She growled.

"No."

The little bird was going to be sullen and awful. He realized that there was nothing that he could do to make her back out down. He wouldn't ever hurt her, he couldn't. He wouldn't let her sit out in the rain and catch her death, either. He bent down to pick up his sword, instructing her to pull her cloak tighter.

He put his hand lightly on her shoulders.

"Please, go in. You will get sick out here."

"I'm staying with you."

Gods she is fucking stubborn.

"Get the fuck into the house and I will follow!" He bellowed.

"No! You will go with me. You will stand by my side!"

"Good Gods, girl! Fine."

He pulled her over his shoulder to drag her inside, like he'd done before.

Yes, this situation seemed untenable to him.

As soon as he dropped her onto the floor she looked up at him. She regarded the blood that was staining his face, the huge lacerations in his hands.

"Why did you do that?" She demanded.

He turned away. She lunged for him, forcing him to face her.

"You will not turn away from me! You cannot. You mustn't-" She composed herself slowly, "Why? Why Sandor? Why, my love?"

The Hound was trapped. There was no appropriate response that he could give heróat least as to why he found it fitting that he should actively seek to rip his face and hands apart on some tree.

"I cannot control myself," he whispered, "you've bested me, little bird. I'd rather see my blood than have you hurt."

"You weren't hurting me, Sandor."

"Yes I was, little bird, I was about to. If I allowed myself to take anything more than your kisses I would ruin you. You'd lose all of your opportunities; you'd never find a good knight or rich man to take you as his wife. You'd be stuck with me. I'd be forcing you to tie your life to mine just so that I could feel good. You don't have to give of yourself just because I helped you."

"Why on earth would I want a knight or a rich man?"

"What?"

"Every 'knight' and rich man that I have known has beat me, tortured me, threatened me with rape, trapped me, abused me. A king wanted to kill me. Do you think that I give a care for that? How dare you make decisions for me! For once I want to choose something for myself. I want my voice to matter!" She grabbed his hand to examine his cuts. "Now get into the bed. I am going to mend your cuts as best I can."

The Hound laughed.

"What does the little bird know about healing wounds?"

"I know what they did to me when I had mine. I don't want to hear you speak another word to me. Go."

Defeated, he walked slowly to the bed, his tail between his legs.

Sansa finished cleaning up his wounds, wrapping his hands in scraps of her linen skirt. She cleaned his skin with the sweet orange water. It made him smell like a cake rather than a grown man. When she finished wrapping his cuts, she gently kissed the tops of his hands.

"You've got to promise me you will never do that again."

He grunted.

"And no more grunting. Please."

"Fine, little bird, no more. I'm your prisoner."

"You are not! Stop being so ridiculous, I can hardly understand what happened. For the first time in my life I was experiencing love and then it is ripped from me. Just because you've had these things doesn't mean I shouldn't be allowed-"

"I've never loved anyone besides you, ever."

"Then I don't understand. You said you loved me, you kissed me, and then you ran out and began decimating a tree?"

"I have nothing beside you, and I cannot marry you. How could I take from you?"

"Why can you not marry me?"

"I've already told you, little bird. I've nothing to give you but a sword and some coin."

"But I shall have no other-"

"You only believe that now. Stop forcing yourself to think that I am your only option. You've been deceived by so many others."

Sansa began sniffling again.

"But I thought we were deciding to marry one another when we exchanged I love you's-"

Sandor Clegane shut his eyes hard. He wanted to slam the back of his head against the wall. What was he to say to her? She wanted that? She was hoping that they were performing the old marriage rights? Did she think that they would walk out in the morning, find a Godswood and declare a marriage?

Did she?

Seven hells, she did.

Seven fucking hells. She thought she was in the process of becoming his wife.

He sighed hard, reaching out for her. He placed a linen wrapped hand to her face.

"You want to marry me?"

She sniffled and nodded her head.

"Oh, little bird, you'll regret it."

"I won't. I promise."

He sat up, propping her up onto her feet. He placed a small kiss on her forehead, and lowered himself to the floorboards.

10. Lady Clegane

He would ask her, he decided-but not before he could get out everything that he was feeling. He'd ruin her life if that was what she wanted, fine. But she'd have to as least consider what he said first. It was only fitting, it was only right. He rested himself on one knee, trying to construct the exact words he should say to her.

Sansa, little bird, my only love-I am marrying you because it is the only thing which I could ever want, and I don't deserve any of this. I am completely unworthy of the love that you would give to me, I am totally bereft of anything to give to you. I am requesting that you marry me-I can only promise you that I will keep you safe and make sure that you never go hungry or get cold again. I can do no more for you, but I can devote every moment of my life to making sure that you are happy. I wish that there were more that I could offer you, but there is not. I shall never hold you to this marriage if you become dissatisfied, I would kill myself and make you a widow before I would make you divorce or ruin yourself. My life is a sacrifice to you, my darling little bird.

If only he could get those words to come out.

On his knees, roughly grabbing one of her hands, he simply said, "Marry me, I'll take you as my wife in the old ways. If you don't want me after a time I'll tell everyone I raped you and forced you into this marriage. You are ruining your life, but I will consent to your downfall."

"Sandor, I'd never not want to be your wife. I promise I shall never want to be away from you!"

He wanted to grunt his reply, but held himself back. He'd not even had a wedding, but already he was giving into his wife's fatwa. He'd convinced himself that he had once again taken something that was not his, some lovely little thing that would wind up torturing him. He was reminded of wooden knights.

Looking at Sansa, he drank in the quiet around him. She sunk to the floor before him, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him gently. Nothing was burning yet. He supposed that was a start.

Sandor insisted that Sansa allow him to sleep on the floor, if only for that one night. He picked her up and set her into the bed, swaying between feelings of guilt and elation. The least he could do would be to allow her to have some pre-wedding moments to herself. A final night in her own bed, before she'd grow to learn that sleeping with a dog isn't always as fantastical as it seemed.

He lifted her onto the bed, setting her down onto her pillow. She pulled him into her arms and gave him soft, bird like kisses on his lips and cheeks. He kissed her quietly and walked towards the door. Without turning to look at her, he uttered the words "I love you," and went to sleep.

Sansa lay awake in the bed. She'd blown out all of the candles and was left in the still darkness. She felt strangely calm and composed if not a bit disoriented. Two nights ago she was still facing the horror of being the potential Queen to King Joffrey, living her life in between beatings and torment. She felt strange, then, that those moments seemed to be years behind her. She felt as though she was experiencing life at an accelerated pace, more aware of herself than she had been before. In the quiet, pre-dawn hours spent awake, her thoughts went to her brothers and her mother-and to her sister, that strange girl who she never really knew. She supposed that she had been to cruel to Arya, never communicating quite how much she loved her, despite all outward appearances. She thought of her father, Eddard, wondering if he would have sanctioned this match. She didn't want to speculate, but decided that her love now was enough for him to approve. It didn't matter now. Sansa deeply felt that she would never be reunited with her family, that through the turns of events she'd been cast out to the wind. She was glad that something plucked her out of her orbit, allowing her the chance to at least live.

Her thoughts wandered off to her Sandor-her soon husband, as strange as that was to think-wondering how on earth he must actually feel about this sudden change of plans. She felt her heart. It reminded her of the ocean, of waves crashing in on the shore. Her body was betraying her, stealing her from sleep. She couldn't keep her eyes closed long enough to sleep. She decided to sing herself a song of happy love and thank both the old gods and the new. She drifted off before she was finished with the third verse-

Sandor woke before the sun, as he was accustomed to doing. He'd slept apart from Sansa, his last night of being able to sleep alone, wake alone, dress alone. He didn't suppose that he would miss it at all. The windows let in a gray, ashy light. He could see snow falling outside of the window in soft little flurries. He quietly made his way into the bed chamber to look in at Sansa, who was lightly asleep. She looked like a little porcelain doll. He didn't want to risk his footsteps waking her, so he decided only to watch her sleep for a moment. He left the room and quietly put on his boots to walk outside.

Outside, the air was freezing. It was much colder than it was the night before. He was puzzled by this. The cold felt unnatural for the Southern Kingdoms-it was harsh and biting. It was too cold to travel that day. The snow was already starting to fall too heavily. He'd have to figure out where he would put Stranger for the rest of the day and that night. He hadn't seen any of the house or the land surrounding it in daytime yet. He was eager to patrol his surroundings. From the covered porch he looked about him, marveling at things that appeared alien. The trees, for instance, were bigger than he had remembered them riding in. They were greener, with heartier leaves. They were winter trees, not weak Southern trees. For the life of him he couldn't figure out which one he had spent the previous night hacking away at. There wasn't a single tree that showed any kind of trauma. He chalked it up to the snow; it always managed to make everything look new, initially at least.

He was glad for the snow, though, because it gave him the advantage of security. Anything that walked near this house would leave a trail-it would be difficult for something to wait for him in an unseen corner. He turned back into the house, glad to step in from the cold. He didn't have the composition of a Northern man and was privately dreading the impending winter. He usually didn't like things which were cold-they required fire and heat to ward off. He'd at least go into this winter with a little something to keep his bed warm. He smiled at this thought.

Sandor felt very disoriented when he looked around. He didn't realize how much he had overlooked when he'd allowed Sansa to survey the home. There was more furniture than he'd remembered, and more candles. With the morning light coming into the house everything looked cleaner. Even the doorframe he'd managed to mangle the night before looked to have gone through no trouble.

Perhaps everything seemed so strange because he couldn't recall a time when he wasn't on duty of some kind. Even as a child he was on constant duty against his brother. Relaxation had only come in the form of drinking marathons, usually spent alone. This morning he felt incredibly domestic-surveying the house and the yard. For a moment he wished that he and Sansa wouldn't have to leave this place, ever.

He went into the kitchen to look for some of the dried meats that she had found the night before. His stomach was rumbling hard. When he opened the cupboard where they were the night before there appeared to be more than what he recalled. Everything seemed fuller. He could have sworn that the night before the scraps were meager. Today there was an entire array, also some cheeses and bags of flours, sugar, casks and water and ever-milk. What the fuck is happening?

He decided that with the trauma of the travel he and Sansa were both out of their wits. They must not have been keen at observing their surroundings. He would set those thoughts aside. He decided that he would start this morning off the right way, hell bent on making a new life for himself and the little bird. He immediately set off to making another fire in the hearth. He had nothing to fear, or so he kept trying to convince himself. When the fire exploded into flames, he felt a sense of wholesomeness he hadn't expected. He gathered up more wood and kindling, and went into the bedroom. He was sure that Sansa would be delighted to wake up with a fire going in the roomóshe wouldn't have to wake up freezing and chattering in thin linens.

Sansa woke up to a warm room. She smiled, stretching her arms out. She wondered where Lady was, whether she was out playing with Robb and Rickon and Jon. She was glad to see snow again.

It quickly dawned on her that she was a thousand miles away from Winterfell. At least she was also far from King's Landing. She noticed the fire in the room going, glad for its heat. She smiled broadly and went to the little dressing table. There, she prepared herself for her wedding day. She felt like a silly girl. The night before she'd only noticed the brush, bowl and mint plant. She hadn't noticed that there were scented oils, ladies powders and a bar of glass root, a substance that made the teeth glisten like polished tiles.

She brushed out her hair, making it gleam like threads made of fire. She applied various oils to her pressure points-perfumes made of hydrangeas and winter-blooming lily. They smelled like a sweet memory. She even powdered her face and dabbed a bit of white jasmine oil on her lips so that they would gleam. In a drawer she found a nail buffer and a small hair clip made of Northern silver, forged in a traditional design. She examined it with wonder before placing it in her hair, which she was relieved to have styled the way she did when she was a young girl. She'd never style her hair in the Southern way again.

In the drawers she found more than last night's roughhewn fabrics. How could she have overlooked the pretty grey-blue dress that was folded in the drawer? Everything to her seemed so familiar; she couldn't imagine what she'd stumbled upon. Hanging on a sideboard she found breeches and leathers and sturdy Northern Cloak with fur lining. How much she hadn't noted! How strange, all of this had been abandoned. Perhaps this was the home of a family who had gone out to fight with her brother, she thought, sadly. Why someone for Riverrun would have done that, though, was another question altogether.

No matter! She opened the door to the bedchamber, dragging the cloak out to Sandor. She hoped he'd be glad to have something so warm. She emerged wearing the pretty blue dress, needing him to lace her up.

She was a vision. She was bright and beautiful and happy looking, the dress reminded him of the first time he'd laid eyes on her. He almost couldn't look at her; he felt the way he'd felt then-like she was a distant being that he couldn't quite connect with.

"Lace me up, my lord!"

He complied.

"A nights' sleep in a bed did you some good, my lady."

"How so?"

"Your back looks as though it has healed."

"What? Stop. Look at it again."

Sandor stopped what he was doing, running the tip of his finger down her back. It was as white as the new fallen snow.

"My lady, you look completely healed." Even the bruises on her face and the cuts on her lips seemed to have disappeared. He'd thought that she had perhaps found some way of concealing them.

"How strange-" She murmured, feeling very confounded indeed.

He finished lacing up her dress, wondering if he'd ever get used to doing something that required such delicate attention.

"Today if your wedding day, little bird. That is, of course, if you haven't changed your mind."

She beamed at him and went onto the tips of her toes to place a kiss on his chin.

"If only there were a Godswood beside me at this moment!"

Sandor had wrapped himself in the cloak that Sansa had cleverly found him. He decided to forgo wearing the majority of his chain mail on his wedding day, instead opting for his leathers, gloves and sword. He stepped outside of the house, ushering Sansa with him. He swept her up into both of his arms. He'd carry her to a Godswood-she'd keep her toes warm out here. She was as light as a feather and he delighted in the feeling of her small, warm hands around his neck. He was walking through a dream, carrying his little bird to find one of her precious Godswood trees. He kept a look out for blood red leaves.

He carried her out to where he had remembered coming in the night before, though everything looked dramatically different. A short distance away, he saw the red of a Godswood peeking out from a grove of sturdy winter trees. He could feel Sansa getting excited as they approached it.

"My lord, allow me to say my last maiden's prayer before it sees our marriage vows?"

"That's fine with me, little bird."

He took off his cloak and lay it down before the great Godswood so that she may kneel and now get wet with snow. The giant tree starred down at Sansa, and she began singing her prayers. He watched her and felt a subtle sweetness and panic wash over him. He felt as though he was completely lost, and was so glad for it he couldn't help but utter a small prayer to himself.

"What do we do?"

"I'm not sure!" She giggled. "I've only seen marriages that involved a Septon. My father had told me that the only real marriages were made through vows of true love and oaths of marriage beneath the Godswood. He said that the God's can see the marriage and don't require anything else."

"And that will suffice for you?"

"Yes. And you?"

He nodded. He'd already pledged his life to her in private a thousand and one times. This was just another opportunity to do so.

Without hesitation, eager to begin, Sandor wrapped his arms around her, lowering his face to stare straight into hers. He'd force himself to find the words that would please her if it was the last thing that he'd ever do. He started slowly.

"Sansa Stark, I love you. I have loved you since the first moment which I saw you, when you were afraid of that awful knight. I promised my soul to you at that moment. I love your little hands and your bright mouth. I promise you that I will love you until my spirit is ripped from my body. I promise that every action that I take will be only for your benefit. I promise you my loyalty, my honesty, my dedication. I shall fight to give you anything that you desire. I will love any child that you give to me. I will live my life, from this moment on, as though it were a gift handed to me by the Gods. I shall live only for you. I pledge myself, Sandor Clegane, to be your husband, in this lifetime and in the next."

Sansa knew that the wife wasn't to say much, but revel in the words of her husband.

"I am now Sansa Clegane, and my life is only yours. I pledge myself to be your wife, in this lifetime and in the next."

She'd hardly said the words before Sandor drew her up into his arms, kissing her deeply, pulling as much of her into him as possible. The Hound and the She-Wolf, bound together.

Sandor had nearly bounded back to the little house with her in his arms. He eagerly opened the door to let them in, carrying her across the floorboards into the bedroom. The world was even brighter, as shining as newly forged steel. Their entire journey to the bedroom had been punctuated with kisses, with him stopping to look into her face while she ran a hand across his. He laid her out on the bed and undid the cloak around his neck, letting it drop to the floor.

He grabbed her firmly, pulling her little body towards his, pulling out all of the ties on the back of her dress, running his hands through her hair, burying himself in her kisses.

"My husband!" She panted into his ear as he slowly pulled at her dress, exposing her shoulder. She shivered and was ready.


	3. Chapters 11-15

11. Bedding

Sandor completely unwrapped Sansa. She was warm and soft and delicate-and he was past the point of no return. He pulled and pushed at her body, feeling all parts of her. She'd gasp as he reached for more territory: the peaks and arches of her breasts, the red valley of her flower. He wordlessly took her in, kneading her skin like clay, tasting her flesh. She'd married a man, but was bedding a beast-he made love as though her were one of the first men. He moved by instinct, claiming every part of her body as though he had conquered it. He was overpowering and huge when he pinned her to the mattress, trapping her beneath his body.

He stared down at her, his deep brown hair brushing Sansa's face. He'd spread her legs like linen curtains, inching himself until their two parts were touching. Sansa couldn't think of any other word for them. All of the things that she'd heard men call her flower seemed to demeaning, and she couldn't imagine thinking of her new husbands parts as a cocks or something else even more loathsome. He placed a gentle hand at her opening and rubbed her slowly, fingers working in small circles. He was parting more of her, finding the secret entrance into her womb. She was wet and growing wetter, her flower warm and nearly sloppy.

She could feel him hesitating at her opening, working deftly yet slowly. He lowered himself and began kissing her there, putting his entire mouth on it. He opened his mouth and lapped at her, using his tongue to search her body. She shivered hard, arching her back and wrapping her legs around his head and shoulders. Waves of some feeling she'd never had before washed over her, huge tidal surges that would make her lose control of her limbs, would leave her nearly blinded for moments. She'd thrash around until they passed, greedily awaiting the next one.

Sandor had never taken a woman's maidenhead, but had heard that it was supposed to be painful. His own body had entered into a state of animal madness, his blood coursing hot from the bottom of his toes to the tip of his manhood. He had to steady himself, knowing that there was no way to avoid hurting her just this once. He'd have to rip something apart within her. He knew that he was larger than most men in every single way and didn't want to cause the little bird undue pain. Had he not allowed himself to leave the point of no return, he wouldn't have been able to consummate his new marriage.

But now he couldn't hold back.

He plunged into her as deeply as he could and felt immediately like he was going to explode. It didn't help that after Sansa's initial cringe she began to moan and mew loudly. It had been so long since he'd had a woman's body part, and he'd never had one which he didn't pay for. He could hardly last, and without a thought, buried his seed deep inside of her garden, a loud groan coming from deep within his chest. He collapsed beside her and pulled her upon his chest, eager to rest and to give her more.

She'd finally grown too exhausted to carry on, and he wrapped her in a new blanket so that she could sleep. He dressed quietly and left her asleep on her own. His body was depleted of all energy, yet he so badly wanted to preserve the feeling of having been a part of her, having his body made one with his little bird. How different it was, this lovemaking-he'd only ever fucked before-the change was immense. It made him feel weak all over, his strength was buried deep within her, now.

He dressed himself so that he could go out and survey the area around the little house, to try once again to get some reading as to where they were. He was so exhausted that he could barely move, yet couldn't shake the strange feeling the house and the land left with him. He wrapped himself in his leathers and the new cloak that Sansa had found for him. He secured his sword to his waist and tucked his Katar into his belt.

Outside, the sky had become even more grey and heavy. The snow that covered the ground was thicker than it was earlier in the day; the woods appeared to be even denser. He walked to the small lean-barn to check in on Stranger. He felt badly for the poor horseóhe'd been so acclimated to the heat of the South and seemed to be very cold. He shifted the horse blankets to cover more of him, stroking his face. Stranger also wasn't acclimated to having his owner being more gentle with him. They'd both been wild: the sweet scene of Sandor feeding and blanketing his horse was completely foreign.

Outside, back into the cold, small snowflakes were falling. The snow seemed to get thicker by the moment, Sandor was sinking nearly to his kneecaps as he walked. His head was light and fine, all anxiety had left him. He looked lovingly at the little house as he was walking from the barn.

Hidden in the shadow, something was moving.

12. Strangers

He toppled the thing to the ground, pummeling her hard against the cold ground of the covered porch. The thing that crept through the woods wouldn't live-he'd have her throat out before he'd allow her to touch the doorknob or the windows.

"Scream and I'll choke you with your insides!" He snarled, holding her down by the throat.

The thing, he recognized, was a Wildling. She looked at him through her wild, matted hair, her eyes smiling deviously even as he was cutting off her air supply. She'd been hunched by the window, staring in at where Sansa slept when he caught her. She didn't try to run, but instead yielded in an uncivilized way. Her eyes screamed mischief and deception, her mouth contorted in a toothy grin.

"I won't scream, milord-" She choked out, her lips barring her discolored teeth.

Sandor grabbed her by the collar of her cloak, lifting her up to him.

"I ain't here to take nothing, milord."

"I'm no lord." He growled in her face. "What business have you here? Who the fuck are you?"

He held her now by one large hand, brandishing his Katar in the other.

"I'm only here to ask for food and shelter for the little lords, sir."

"What little lords? Who sent you here?"

A vision of Joffrey being spirited away by some slavish whoremonger Wildling on his way to Casterly Rock flashed through his head. He imagined Cersei and Tommen and The Imp waiting by in the woods with a handful of loyalist kingsguards waiting to descend upon he and his bride. He brought the blade to her throat, ready to spill blood.

The Wildling smiled and cocked her head sideways, not flinching from the blade.

"The little Stark lords, ser."

Osha ushered them into the warmth of the little house. Hodor carried Bran upon his back-he was nearly as tall as Sandor, making Bran nearly eye-level to the hound. Osha held Rickon's hand, comforting him. The two children looked at him with curiosity, unafraid to look into his face.

Fucking Stark manners. They're so steeped in honor they won't peel their eyes off of me. Perhaps this flea-bitten crew of theirs has already scarred them enough.

"Stay here, make yourselves comfortable. I-I'm sorry for frightening you, woman." He said to the Wildling, walking to the bedroom and disappearing behind the door.

With a tense urgency, he growled through his teeth.

"Wife, my love, wake." He pulled her into consciousness. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her eyes to give him a kiss. "What is it? Is it morning already?"

"You've visitors."

She looked at him gravely, her eyes glazing over. Her face looked instantly worried. Before she had time to ask another question, she heard two little boys laughing on the other side of the door.

13. Dogs and Wolves

While the mystic feeling of the moment increased exponentially for Sansa, a sense of deep dread entered into The Hound. Sansa immediately fell into the arms of her lost little brothers, setting them awash with kisses and hugs, nestling her face into their hair, exclaiming over them and falling into rapid tears. He stood back and away from them, watching the three with Hodor and Osha. He felt stupid and servile, once again like a dumb dog useful only for tasks and protection. The unabashed softness that he had thrown himself headlong into now seemed like a grievous mistake. How stupid could he have been? How conniving was he that he would enter into a marriage with this girl? Even worse, how could he have fucked her? Watching her with the little boys he couldn't imagine being introduced as her friend, even less her husband. What would the little boys think? They'd be horrified, frightened, disgusted. He was just as disgusting and broken as the Wildling and the sweet, stupid giant. The Hound knew his place. He was relieved that she hadn't introduced him to the little boys as anything-he was hoping that she would become as frigid as Cersei to him and allow him to leave with a broken heart, so that she might retain her hope and dignity. He'd even consent to remaining her sworn swordóbut he'd never force her to cop to being his wife.

I hope to the fucking God's she isn't pregnant.

His love for her hadn't diminished by even on inch, but he was fully aware of its repercussions.

"Oh, Sandor, do come here!" She called to him. His stomach lurched.

"What can I do for you my lady?" He asked coldly, his voice as flat as a dull knife.

"Oh, Sandor, I'm so happy! Please, sit with me."

"I'd prefer to stand." He grunted.

"Why?"

"Sansa. Stop."

She looked at him with puzzled eyes.

"Don't you wish to meet your new brothers?"

Sandor's burnt face twitched into an ugly expression which Sansa couldn't read-he showed no emotions, but a disconnected reserve shot through with steel. He held his tongue, saying absolutely nothing. He'd said nothing when he'd seen Sansa beaten to the edge of her mortality. He'd said nothing against the little prick King and his cunt-whore mother. He'd say nothing now. He didn't have the courage within him to confront these two children and usurp their sister from them.

"Brother! Hooray! I love brothers!" Rickon exclaimed suddenly, hopping to his feet. He was soon standing toe-to-toe with The Hound, his chest puffed out. Sandor regarded him for a moment, looking down at the little boy who stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. The little boy was brave enough to look him straight in the eyes, a stupid little smile plastered across his face. He stood like a toy soldier, a comical little thing. Sandor recognized that look. He'd looked that way at Gregor and at his own father. He'd run to his father when he was small, wanting to be held and to play. He'd once made the mistake of calling his father 'daddy!' instead of sir and was met with the broad side of a gauntlet, across the face. Other than his sister, he had never really known familial love for anyone or anything. He'd become hardened by age eight.

He looked at Sansa, wanting to apologize for everythingóhe didn't know what to do.

"Brother! Pick me up so I can sit on your shoulder!"

He looked at Sansa, desperate.

"Rickon, you've legs, you have no reason to make this man do what you tell him. You must be polite, we're his guest." Bran corrected his brother. "And besides, I need carrying. Me first. It's not fair that you get to be picked up just because you are a baby."

"I'm no baby Bran, I'm six!"

"You're a baby compared to me!"

The two boys were getting into it-but in a sweet, brotherly way. Sansa beamed at Sandor.

"This is Sandor, he is my husband. I'm sure he can pick you both up and give you rides if you are very polite and mind your manners."

The little bird is singing her stupid songs again. I'll need that fucking wine.

The two little boys said nothing derisive-neither of them recoiled in horror. Rickon just stood before him, waiting patiently to be picked up, Bran looked eager ride on the back of something even taller than Hodor.

To his own surprise, The Hound bent down and picked up Rickon and then went across the room to pick up Bran. He held the two boys up in his arms, walking about the small cottage room. For a strange moment, nothing in the world existed but these two boys. They didn't care a lick about his scars and were happy to throw their arms around his neck and begin peppering him with rapid fire questions-where was he from, what did he do, how did he meet their sister-they went on in on.

I'm from a hell-hole keep that you better pray that you never run across. I'm a bad man, a killer of men. I met your sister at your home, shortly before I drew my own sword against your father, before I watched her get tortured by the Kingsguard. I also killed your little friend Mycah, but somehow managed to wed your sister after I convinced her to leave everything and wander the world aimlessly. I am truly someone you should admire. Bugger that.

He just allowed them to keep asking, realizing that they weren't really interested in what he had to say. They were just relieved to have a happy moment. Rickon once again exclaimed that he loved new brothers, and planted a kiss on the ruined side of his face. When his wife approached them she instigated an awkward hug. They looked like a family celebrated in simple country-folk songs. He looked at her with eyes both confused and dashed with happiness.

"Tomorrow, I'll take Hodor and we'll build the boys some beds." He blurted out.

"Hodor!"

Sansa smiled at everyone, even the Wildling.

"The little lords need sleep now. They've wandered all day. We can take up in the barn."

"Bugger that. You'll sleep in here. We'll make beds. No one in this family is going to sleep in the barn."

Sandor set down the children and made them little beds out of furniture, blankets and a few straw sacks kept for kindling.

"If you boys want, I will take you to chop down a tree and teach you how to build things. We can make beds and carve toys. We can hunt. Would you like that? Us and Hodor, out having a nice day?"

You sound like a fucking moron. Seven hells, you sound as stupid as Sansa does when she gets into her sing-song moods.

The two boys just exclaimed and smiled.

Sansa wanted to laugh as hard as she could. She knew that Sandor had no clue that his face was screwed up into the biggest smile she'd ever seen from him. She realized, too, that now there was a real chance that she could repair her family. She took her husband's hand, feigning exhaustion, and went to go to bed.

14. Icemice and Winterfoxes

Sandor had woken up earlier than Sansa-he'd dressed and eaten quietly and went outside to start gathering wood to start building and carving. He'd felt unhinged by himself the night before-a stranger to the emotional outpouring that he'd been involved in. The little boys made him feel especially off-center; he felt in his very bones and body things that he hadn't known since the very smallest childhood. He remembered playing with things, lolling about on the floor with his pet dogs-he'd spend hours playing out of doors, sometimes by himself, sometimes with friends. He'd had the shit beaten out of him regularly, too. And, of course, he'd been tortured. But the Stark brothers somehow made up for that, and he was excited to do something for them. He'd worried, though, that he had been too quick to the sudden delight he had expressed the night before. He'd resume his usual repertoire of distance and devotion.

Bugger that. I'll carve fucking toys is what I'll do.

When Sansa awoke she went and peered out the window. Sandor, Hodor and her little brothers were walking about outside. Hodor held Bran aloft while Sandor allowed Rickon to ride upon his shoulders. The two giant men handed compacted snowballs to the boys upon their backs, allowing their selves to be pelted in the process. Sandor and Hodor both wound up with ice and snow in their hair.

Sansa wrapped herself up in a big blanket and walked into the next room. The Wildling woman immediately greeted her with a strange, cock-eyed look. Sansa didn't know what etiquette to give a Wildling and felt that she was being quite ineffectual in even making good eye contact. She nervously fingered the blanket, looking at the floor.

"Gmornin milady."

"Good morning to you as well."

"Seen them out playing all day in the yard. They look as though they are having more fun than shadowcats eating icemice."

"Yes, it seems so."

Sansa couldn't look at her. She wasn't grotesque-in a strange way, she had a brilliance about her. She was almost entrancing.

"Why aren't you in Winterfell?" Sansa quietly whispered, afraid to know.

"That's a story milady-" The Wildling started describing the way Theon Greyjoy managed to become the Lord of Winterfell, leaving the keep in complete ruins. She went into great detail about keeping the little lords stowed away, about Maester Luwin's death.

Sansa sat in silence, moving her jaw around as though she wanted something to say.

"Sandor will take back Winterfell for us one day. I just know it." She said, suddenly.

"I wouldn't be a hoping for that, milady. Winterfell's not going to do anyone any good. If I were you I'd tell that man out there to take me as far South as any man can get as soon as the next fortnight. I'd pack everything here, your brothers and Hodor and leave, getting away from this damned house. Maybe you'd even take me."

"Why would I want to do that? We can go back home, stay here until we can figure out how to do that. This house provides everything. Why would I leave for the South when there is so much unknown?"

"I noticed things in this house that weren't there the night before. Everything changes here. You think that's good fairy magic, don't you milady?"

"I suppose."

"Well it ain't-and I wouldn't trust none of it. This kind of magic is like a fox who is off to hunt. You've ever seen a winterfox hunt?"

"Um—no-."

"Well I have. And it ain't beautiful. First they find their pray-they sniff if out, observe it, learn its weaknesses. Soon enough the fox approaches their intended kill and begins to paw and mew, purr and dance about like a newly born kitten. It is enough to charm the gold out of a Lannister's pocket. The prey becomes so entranced it doesn't notice that the fox's jaws are wrapped around his neck until it's too late. Then, it's dead. Over. A lot of magic is like that, milady."

Sansa looked nervously at the floor, moving her foot about neurotically.

"I suppose you could be right. But we're so far north now, home would be easier-when we have to leave."

"Talk to your big man out there, he'll know what is best."

"I'm sure he will."

Sansa nodded curtly and dashed back into her bedroom.

Sandor spent most of the afternoon working on things for the boys. He'd employed Hodor in assisting him, setting Rickon and Bran before him while he made them a proper bed to sleep in. He'd presented them with their toys-poorly made wooden men. Rickon was pleased, and even the serious and mercurial Bran was showing some amusement. The two fought with the little toys-knighting both of them immediately. Seven hells all boys are the same.

Sansa went to watch her husband working and doted on her brothers, asking her husband questions about what he was doing. She sounded like a child, picking up tools and asking "What is this?" and "What does this thingy do?" She observed all of the happiness that surrounded The Hound and felt guilty for feeling suddenly very frightened. The Wilding Woman managed to fill her with a sense of dread much like the one she'd felt at King's Landing. She resolved herself not to say a thing, and only wait until night to speak to Sandor about it.

15. Sleep

Sandor laid still and listened to snow clinking softly against the glass windows; awake in the night, still as the grave, he could hear everything around him. He could hear the trees outside, shifting and crackling under the weight of snow. He could hear the soft popping of the half-dying fire as it consumed its embers. He could hear the wind and its low groan. Sansa, being so close, sounded loudest-her breath sounded like the sea. She was warm and alive next to him. Her head rested on his shoulder, one of his arms stretched out beneath her. He marveled that she could find his arm to be the most comfortable spot to sleep. He squeezed her close to him and looked at her face. She'd look as though she wanted to wake, but instead burrowed herself closer to him, shifting her body to lock herself in as tightly into his side as possible.

He thought about what she said to him before she finally decided to go to sleep-she'd told him the story that the Wildling woman had told her-the one about icemice and foxes. He gritted his teeth, his face twitching into an ugly grimace. Being the last one awake and alone in it, he enjoyed grimacing and privately raging. He thought about the Wilding woman and wanted very badly to string her up by her own guts. He didn't like her and didn't like that she was trying to spoil what happiness Sansa had found. And of course, the happiness that he was newly experiencing. The fucking witch from the North wants to scare little girls into running to God knows where. Little bird might believe the things that she says, but I sure as shit don't. Little bird thinks this woman saved her brothers because of the great love she feels in heart. I think she isn't as fucking dumb as she acts like and understands the leverage of being the only trusted keeper of two Lords who represent a dying house.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the Wildling woman. He had half a mind to quietly sneak into the room where the boys were, cut her throat while she slept and bury her beneath the snow. He'd tell the boys that she'd left in the middle of night, no longer feeling welcome in the homeóor anything. Fuck if I care. She must go. He'd learned these new feelings of happiness, but he hadn't forgotten an entire life filled with base cruelty and viciousness. He steeled himself to his angry resolve, pulling Sansa into him.

Besides, there was also the matter of Theon Greyjoy-though he wasn't really sure how he would deal with that. He knew that he couldn't let the house out of his eyesight for even a minute. He'd grown accustomed to its shifting and changing, the way the trees would meld around it-new breeds would pop up overnight, old trees would be gone in the morning. Whenever Sansa mused about needing something, it would appear in a drawer or around the house. He wondered when one of her precious lemon cakes would wind up freshly baked on the countertop. If he was to go anywhere to seek out shelter or a way south, he'd have to take the entire party along with him. He didn't want to consider walking away and the house suddenly changing, leaving him behind and taking Sansa and her brothers to some other realmóthey would be then divided by some impenetrable vale. The thought of that sent a shock down his spine, as cold and cruel as Valyrian Steel.

Yet still he wanted to rip the fucking throat out of Greyjoy-in the same way he wanted to kill his brother, kill the king, kill every Lannister that had ever breathed air. He wanted to kill the royal executioner, as well as whoever decided to light fucking Blackwater Bay on fire. He wished that he could line all of his enemies up, end to end, and take the longest, sharpest blade he could find and impale them all together. He wanted to kill everyone who had done Sansa wrong-perhaps for some sort of atonement. He thought of watching her father get executed. He didn't move a muscle to prevent it. He wished that there was some way he could dull his guilt with blood.

Besides, leaving would do other awful things-complicate his life more than what he needed. He'd made love to Sansa every time he'd been alone with her and had left his seed within her. He realized that he was desperate to find out that she had something in heróa son, a daughter, and set of children, whatever she had he would want from her. He didn't want to consider any other world than the one he was living in with Sansa and wanted to begin populating it. In this world she didn't seem to have any enemies. If he could keep her away from the real world that raged outside he could keep her safe and selfishly enjoy her. She could have babies-not royal babies, but children none the less-babies that he would pray would look more like her and less like them. If the God's were good they would get his height and nothing else.

Sansa turned in his arm, wrapping her arms around his, making incoherent noises.

He kissed her softly and closed his eyes, devoutly sure of his plans.


	4. Chapters 16-20

16. Lemons

Sansa woke when she felt Sandor kicking the sheets off of him, sliding away from her to start his day. He always fell asleep after she did and awoke when the sky was still black. Kings Guard habits, she thought to herself, opening her eyes to stare at him. She imagined him in all phases of his life, the way he must have lived. He'd most likely never slept in unless he was knocked out stone cold from wine. She reached out to him, touching him lightly on the small of his back.

"Husband, come back to bed-it's cold." Sandor turned to her and draped his arm around her, kissing her lightly on her forehead. She thought about the word husband as he held her, felt all of the strange feelings this tenderness brought with it. She took his hand to pull him in closer. She wanted to bind his body to hers, force him to meld into her skin in as many ways as possible. But she'd have to let him go-she couldn't force him to stay in bed all day. One day in the future, mayhaps, but not now. She'd have to allow him to go about his business, allow him to do what he felt he needed to do-she kissed his palm and closed her eyes and dreamed of lemon cakes, Winterfell, and an eternal summer.

When she woke up again she was alone in the room. It was already midmorning-the sun was bright and shining on the snow outside the window. A large fire danced in the pit-it must have been freshly tended. She smiled, feeling happy and childish and well awake. She was as hungry as a wolf, dying for some food. She left the room-room she thought, not cage-wrapped in her dresses and blankets. The house was empty, she was completely alone. She walked and peered out the door- the fallen snow had blanketed everything in a thick white. Every morning the earth looked as though it had been dressed for a wedding. It was completely unsullied. She couldn't hear her brothers or Hodor or Sandor, and the Wildling woman was nowhere to be found. Sansa felt very alone for a moment and stood feeling quite useless, wondering what to do.

She went into the kitchen and started to look for food. Something smelled wonderful, but there were no signs of anything that had been cooked for breakfast. She opened cupboards and felt a bit of despair. She didn't even know how to make food. She wanted to sulk and eat whatever smelled so enticing. She opened up the door to the oven and found the culprit-a single lemon cake, no bigger than a snow peach, warm and inviting, iced in melted sugar cream. She must still be dreaming. She took it out with her bare hands, glad to feel the warm little morsel in her palm. She took it by the fire and stared at it, nibbling at the corners slowly and methodically. A huge smile crept across her face as she sat happily eating in silence.

How long would it take for them to return? Hours passed after she'd eaten her divine lemon cake without seeing a single sign of life. A thicker snow started to fall from the sky-everything felt like it was going dark. She tried to build up more of a fire but just ended up snuffing out the embers. She went and lay in bed and felt sorry for herself. She was terribly bored and the loneliness started to feel scary. Where were they-why wasn't she told where they were going? How could Sandor have just left her alone for an entire day? She began to worry that something awful had happened, that some Lannisters had found them, or some of Theon's men chasing the boys had killed them all. Her stomach began to cramp and she was beginning to feel sick. Her ears began sharpening; she tried to listen for any noises in the distance-the sound of her brothers laughter, her husband, the crazy Wildling.

Maybe the Wildling was right, maybe something awful was afoot.

But she couldn't hear anything. She began to feel frightened as the sun began setting. She'd spent the entire day alone in a state of slow fear. As the darkness grew so did her terror. She began to feel more and more sick, her panic making her shake. She didn't know what she was to do, where she would go, how she would find them. She felt guilty that she worried about her husband before she worried about her brothers-if he was alive surely they would be, but vice versa she had no hope. She began to cry like a child, her fists in little balls.

Should she go and look for them?

Where would they have gone without telling her?

What would happen if she left?

She was paralyzed with her fear and laid quietly by herself, balled up on Sandor's side of the bed. She gripped his pillow under her and she began crying as hard and as loudly as she could. She hadn't wailed like that since before King's Landing. She cried from the inside of her stomach, making herself go hoarse as she screamed out into the blackness. There was no more fire and the house was totally dark and was becoming too cold to bear. She screamed out her husband's name, over and over, crying out to the mother and to the warrior for his return. She cried until she felt like her throat would give out completely, until her eyes burned.

She fell silent as soon as she heard the low moan of a couple of wolves in the distance.

17. Winterfell

She saw torches out the window, lighting up the woods-she saw what looked to be one hundred men walking about the house, shouting. She heard them as they crunched ice on the front porch, as they opened the door to the house. Sansa didn't try to move or to hide-she knew she was dead already. She just lay on her side, starring away from the door, trying to control how badly her body was shaking. Everything turned slow as the door handle to the bedroom turned, as they began marching in.

"Lady Clegane, former Lady Stark?" Someone asked softly-surprising her with knowing her new name. She turned to look at him, a man in Northern clothes. A few Northern guards gathered at the bedroom door, peering in at her. She turned on her side and starred at them, her eyes blank and lifeless.

"Yes, my lord, how may I assist you?" She was suddenly a Northern woman again, a Stark, a lady, ever dutiful.

"We've come to take you home." The guard reached his hand out to her, his face expressing friendship. She turned away from him, fighting back a scream.

"My lady, please, you are safe now. We are taking you back to Winterfell." The man put a timid hand on her shoulder. She ripped herself away from his grip.

"Where is my husband?" She growled darkly.

"My lady, do not distress-"

"I asked you where my husband was. You dare tell me not to distress? Where is he?"

"My lady, he is at Winterfell. He is well. He sent us for you, please, my ladyÖ"

"Why did he not come for me himself?"

"He's been wounded, my lady."

"Wounded? How?"

"My lady, please, just gather your things together and we will away from here. I assure you that no harm will befall you in the North. You are home."

"I have asked you already-how was he wounded?"

"He killed the traitor Theon Greyjoy, my lady, and suffered a wound. He is fine, please believe me. He just couldn't walk. We assured him that we would gather you. We assured him we'd take good care of you. We owe him so much. The entire North does." He looked at Sansa, his eyes pleading. There wasn't a lie within his eyes, she could see that clearly.

"And my brothers?" She asked, gravely.

"They are safe as well. They have been reunited with their Maester in the castle, they lay in their beds. Even their direwolves were found in the Godswood, we're taking them home with you my lady."

Sansa gathered her things up and followed the men outside. The sky yard was bright with all of the torches and Northern men who fell to their knees at the sight of the living Stark daughter. She walked in silence with the man who came to get her through the crowd, lowering her head to look at each of the men. The air was thick and quiet and full of power. She felt their loyalty, the undeniable electricity of the love the North still held for her family.

Quietly, she whispered to her courier, "Where are we?"

The man looked at her, alarmed.

"You are in the Godswood, my Lady. In the house of the elders-the little house you played in as a child. Frankly, we have no idea how you managed to hide in there, undetected by the Iron Islanders-"

"That is quite impossible, Ser. That house was nothing like the house I played inÖ"

"My lady, it is, take a look at it yourself!"

Sansa turned to look at the house as they walked towards Winterfell. It was the house, and it wasn't. She felt sick and grateful and happy and afraid all at once. She treaded lightly though the snow.

"Sandor's destrier- Stranger, is he fine?"

"That big black horse? Yes, my lady, he is stabled at Winterfell."

Sansa nodded and walked behind him, following him home. She kept looking over her shoulder as the little house disappeared in the thick of the Godswood. Yes, she'd known that house once-but it had seemed so different-the location of fairy stories, not the real world. She smiled faintly, walking deftly through the snow, towards Winterfell, and home, and the ghosts of her past.

When she walked through the courtyard of Winterfell, the moon was high and bright: Sansa looked about her, at the smoke and remnants of something truly awful. The bodies of the dead had been taken and burnt outside of the walls, thin needles of smoke trailing up into the sky. She thought she'd enter with the guards alone, and was shocked to see groups of the smallfolk who remained in Winterfell come out to catch a glimpse of her. She'd forgotten how quickly news spread in Winterfell. Her home, her land, her people-she remembered being small and so bored of them and so desperate to leave them for something grander. Seeing them now, she saw herself as she used to-a world completely retrograde to that of Kings Landing. She felt like she'd been a fool to have ever wanted to leave. Her heart heaved in her chest, heavy and burdened. She was humbled by the weary faces that smiled at her with cracked lips and broken hearts. They gave her a silent homecoming that filled her soul with gratitude. She'd left as a naive girl and came back as something else-something changed, a creature that had been worn out.

"They've missed you, Lady St-Clegane."

She smiled at the guard, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"Where is my husband?" She asked quietly.

"They put him up in your old room. I expect that the Maester will be with him, attending to his troubles. You do remember where your old room is?"

"Of course." She said faintly, wondering if Sandor was laid out among the dolls that she had refused to take with her to King's Landing. The big Hound asleep with her little dollies and toys and trinkets. She'd almost smiled.

The guard delivered her to the door that she'd once known so well. She looked at it for a moment, nervous to open it.

"Should I prepare myself for anything?" She inquired.

"I told you, my lady, he isn't dying. He'd just a bit too injured to walk right now is all. Please, my lady, don't be frightened. Of course, his face looks terrible. That may never heal."

Sansa wondered at that last part of the statement. Had he never heard of The Hound Sandor Clegane? Hadn't he seen him on his first visit to Winterfell when King Robert and her father were still alive? Or could it be that things had been made worse? She shuddered to think of it-not for her sake, but for his. He'd think even more badly of himself. She sighed.

"Thank you for escorting me, ser. I shall never forget your kindness. Nor will any member of my family forget to bestow it upon any member of yours." She smiled brightly, stole what courage she could, and let herself into her old room.

18. Wounds

Gods, it was worse than what she could have prepared herself for.

The face-it was worse than she'd seen it before. He was laid out on her old bed, his body above the covers. He was stripped down to his britches, his chest and arms covered in white linen bandages soaked with blood. The good half of his face was wrapped, too-a large rust covered streak over where his eye would be beneath it. He was lacerated all over-but his chest rose up and down steadily, enough to let her know that he was indeed alive and would remain so. She'd allow nothing else to happen. One of her dollies-the one her father had given her, the tully doll with the red hair and blue dress-was tucked beneath his arm. He nearly looked like a child, were it not that his wounds were only fit for a man.

She looked to Maester Luwin, her eyes brimming with tears. She didn't know what to say to him-she only stared at him, her lower lip trembling.

"My girl, you've returned home to us. All of our prayers have been answered. And you've brought with you a knight for a husband. He shall be fine, we are overjoyed. And you are with child. I didn't think that I would live to see this day."

Sansa sharpened her eyes, shaking off her confusion. Everything had descended into this chaos and her mind was in a complete fog.

"I've been gone for too long-but I'm afraid that Sandor isn't a knight. He wouldn't let anyone call him that, ever. I don't know who has told you that I am with child, I am afraid that you are mistaken."

He shook his head, his entire visage full of a quiet, otherworldly wisdom.

"My girl-your husband killed Theon Greyjoy and singlehandedly killed at least 30 Iron Islanders. If it weren't for his bravery, your brothers would be certainly be dead. He rallied what spirits were left in the North. My girl, he has saved Winterfell for all of us. He returned the last living Starks to their home, restored a lineage, saved out last hopes. Perhaps that doesn't make him a knight in the eyes of the Lannisters or the Baratheons, but he is a true hero. He is a knight, a first of his order. And of course you are with child-I delivered all of the Stark children. I know when a woman is with child, and you most certainly are. And to think, this man brought you to the Godswood all the way from Kings Landing and kept you secret for so long. He has a great mind and spirit."

"No-you're mistaken. We left King's Landing when Stannis took the city and have been in the Elder's House for mere days. We've only been married for a few as well. I've not been hiding—I-"

But the truth was in the Maester's eyes.

"Please, tell me what has happened. I'm afraid I know nothing anymore. Why is Sandor here, why am I here? We couldn't be here, we shouldn't-this wasn't meant to happen. I-I need to know why, and how, and, I don't know-"

Maester Luwin described what had happened after Stannis took King's LandingóJoffrey's murder (which made her heart sing), the complete annihilation of the Lannister household. He revealed to her the death of her mother and brother-told her they'd had no news of Arya. Everything appeared to be lost. He'd believed Bran and Rickon to have been burnt to death by Theon's men, and had lost all hope for life. Earlier on this day there had been a great stir in the Godswood-word had gotten out that some group had been seen living out there. Theon sent a few drunkard guards to assess the scenario. They found Sandor walking without armor holding only his Katar in his belt in the morning light with Rickon and had been mistaken him for Hodor. They attacked and he killed them, only one had the good sense to run from him. The Wildling Osha had gotten Hodor and Bran and took Rickon to hide in the woods while Sandor laid chase to the man. He feared for Sansa's life and her brothers and decided he would tear them all down before they could approach them. He was met by a slew of Iron Islanders who laid into him-but he killed them too. It was as though a warrior from some other time was fighting. As soon as word reached Theon he forced a few Northern guards to fight alongside him and was met in the courtyards by Sandor. Some of the Northern guards thought that they were seeing the ghost of your father and rallied with him against Theon, killing the last of the Iron Islanders. Sandor killed Theon last, dragging him into the great hall where a fire was lit, beat him until he could no longer move and forced his body into it-holding him down with an iron rod, burning him alive. He caused Theon to suffer greatly in his last moments.

"And that is when he discovered that he was bleeding uncontrollably, that he'd been slashed through like summer wheat. He collapsed in the hall and was taken to your chambers by the guards. We had to dose him heavily with milk of the poppy to get him to calm down-he kept screaming for you, threatening the men if anything should happen to you-he thrashed around and had to be held down by a dozen men. I was afraid he'd move so much he'd drain all of his blood from his body. Osha and Hodor brought the boys to Winterfell when the Northern Guards were dispatched to look for you. They revealed where you'd been. They were just as confused as you were, my girl. And now here we are, alive and well."

Sansa couldn't speak, but stood trembling, her hand on her husbands naked shoulder. She knew he'd always maintained a policy of refusing to torture men-and yet she tortured Theon. The revenge sounded so sweetly to her.

Maester Luwin spoke again.

"My girl, you need rest. Sleep with your husband, he will want to be next to you when he wakes. Tomorrow we will talk more."

He turned to go.

"Wait-one thing-the Elder's House, I played in it when I was just a girl, didn't I?"

"You did. With your father, quite often."

"I remembered him saying to me that no harm could ever befall a Stark in the Elder House, that it was enchanted by the Old Gods-I remember it so clearly now, like a dream I'd forgotten. I thought he was just delighting me with fairy stories. Please, Maester, promise me that we can send some men to turn it into a proper home. I wish to take it as my own-a new Clegane Keep, so to speak."

"Of course, my girl."

Maester Luwin opened his arms to her, and she hugged him, smelling his woolen robes-breathing in the North, home, childhood. He was so much better than that idiot pervert Grand Maester Pycelle. He was the last of the Stark elders-well, he might not have been a Stark, but he was her family. She thanked the Gods for him.

After he left, Sansa laid next to her husband, smoothing his hair back with her hands. She readjusted the doll in his arms and watched him, determined to stay awake through the night, until he came out of his poppy sleep.

19. A Brief Moment

He was stabbing like crazy, feeling the wondrous sensation of a blade ripping through skin. He could hear the resistance of flesh tearing against steel, smell the sweet and acrid aroma of warm blood being pumped out of the body. Blood gurgling out of freshly slashed throats-tendons being cut and shredded, bone breaking as easy as a dried twig. And then, the smell of burning human flesh- he'd smelled it a thousand times and had never been glad for it, until now. He held the man-child in the flames, gutting him with a massive iron poker as he screamed. He never could hear the screams-he delivered death too swiftly. This was the first time he allowed himself to hear someone suffer without giving them merciful death. He almost wanted to pull him out of the fire and force him to live. In the end, he'd allow him to die. As soon as Greyjoy's life was gone, he came to his senses. He was bleeding everywhere, his own body pumping out blood. And then came the well intentioned guards, and the bed, and the last thoughts before going under.

Fucking bring her to me! Fuck you all, I'll rape your fucking corpses, bring me my fucking bride!

And then black.

He awoke to death again, he was sure. Her hand on his face, her eyes looking down into him-he tried to raise himself up to kiss her, but was greeted with the shock of his own wounds pulling- the sharp pain of stitches and raw flesh. No, still alive.

He remained conscious only long enough to feel her lips on his face, and was enveloped in black again.

Chapter Twenty

Sandor Clegane would buoy to the surface of consciousness for just enough time to see that she was waiting by his side, attending to him. He would wake for long enough to upset her with struggling in pain against his stitched up wounds-long enough to get a kiss oh his lips, his burnt ruined cheeks or his eyebrow-less eyebrow before once again fading into complete blackness.

Sandor opened his eye slowly, the tense aching in his body silenced by milk of the poppy. His limbs were heavy in his drugged condition, his mental faculties blurred and slowed. His other eye was shut tight with a compress that felt wet and sticky. Sansa was not beside him, but rather across the room standing before her long mirror, her body bare and stripped of clothes. The walls emanated heat, and she stood comfortably-if not brazenly-examining herself, moving her hands delicately across her hips. He didn't make a noise or a movement that would indicate to her that he had woken. She looked transfixed-must be thinking of one of her fucking fairy stories. She was lost in some secret place that he couldn't imagine, one of her songs.

But she looked like some fucking goddess standing without her clothing. He liked seeing her before the mirror-he could see both her backside and her front, take her in from all angles in a single glance. He wanted to laugh at himself, and he almost wanted to mock her. His poor bride, stupid little thing. Married to a mutt like me. Her breasts were full and firm, as were her thighs and her ass. He could feel himself hardening while he watched her, all of his lasciviousness rising up in him in tidal swells. He wished that he wasn't drugged beyond the ability to move-he wished that his body wasn't punctured through so thoroughly that lifting an arm would send sharp pains down his spine. He wanted to stride across the room and fuck her-fill his appetite with her body, draw her onto him. He let out a low, raspy growl, lifting the little bird out of her trance.

"You're awake. I'll give you more of the milk."

"Fuck the milk of the poppy. I don't want to be knocked out again. If I'm alive I want to feel it."

Sansa sighed, walking across the room towards him. She didn't bother to cover herself-she strode across the room bravely, aware of her body and of herself. He could tell that she had gone into one of her wolfish moods.

"You're too much of a wild creature. If I don't give it to you you'll try to move and rip all of your stitching out. I don't want to risk you getting an infection."

"Look who has become a little Septa. Suddenly she knows about stitches that aren't on her dresses."

"Don't be awful. Please, just a few more days and you will be well enough to stay awake."

"Make me drink that shit and you'll wish you hadn't."

"And what will you do?" She asked, biting her lower lip. She leaned over his body, her teats brushing against his chest lightly. She planted a soft, feathery kiss on his lips. He wanted to reach out and draw her into him, but didn't want to contend with her insisting on drugging him again. He'd be a good dog and stay in his place.

"I can't tell you what I'll do. It's a surprise. You'll regret it, though."

"Will I?"

She opened her mouth and took his bottom lip between her teeth, gently nipping at it. His hardness increased tenfold, making him want to move in the worst way possible. If he rallied himself he might be able to knock the milk out of her hand before she could give it to him. There was no use-he'd upset her if he did anything. He'd be obedient, one way or another.

"Well? Will I or won't I?"

"I don't know your mind, girl."

She giggled and climbed upon him, carefully adjusting her body so that she put no pressure on him and disturbed none of his wounds. The agony that it awoke in Sandor was almost sweet-the delicious torture of being conquered. She began kissing his chest, putting her mouth on the flesh between his bandages. She moved up towards his neck, dragging her tongue across his skin.

"You haven't answered me-"

"Damn you, girl."

She stopped abruptly, looking him in the eye. She had a devious look about her-she was confident, all of her vulnerability replaced by this sudden ferociousness.

"You can't move. But I can. So you will do what I say from now on."

"Will I?"

"Yes. Yes, you will." She positioned her hips over his-she could feel him beneath his breeches, the way the blood was moving through him. He was too far away to kiss on the mouth, so she just kept herself above him, moving in small, slow circles. He closed his eye-he had to fight with himself to not move a muscle. His mouth twitched into a near-grimace.

"No, I won't."

He opened his eye to look at her-she was as confident as ever. She carefully dismounted, moving down the bed. She worked wordlessly, breaking eye contact. Without offering any explanation, she undid his breeches and pulled him out-and kissed him on his sex. The air left his chest. He gasped, and she was encouraged.

Who the fuck told her about doing this?

Her movements were so completely inexperienced it was almost laughable, but he couldn't laugh if his life depended on it. He could only suck in deep breaths of air and feel her working. She moved her lips so lightly on the tip, using her tongue slowly. Nothing about it seemed experienced at all. But that, somehow, made him harder-and made lying still nearly impossible. His little bird was doing something that the kitchen wenches and whores did-not what high born girls in their childhood bedrooms did. And she did it so much better.

Gods, fuck me. I'm a fucking thief.

"Little bird, you've won, give me the milk of the poppy-" He almost wanted her to stop. He didn't want to finish the way he'd have to. She didn't stop and he knew that he was seconds away from losing control. "Little bird, please, I yield. Please. I can't."

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Shit. He wanted to fight her off, but couldn't. It was her fucking idea, she could just learn the hard way.

Don't stop. Keep going.

It all went too fast. He felt like he was blacking out and becoming ultra-aware of his surroundings at the same time. He was paralyzed-if he was standing his knees would have given out under him. A dark, thick calm washed over him. She finished as though nothing had happened-she gently re-laced his breeches and wiped the corner of her mouth, getting up and pulling a dressing gown over her head. She wordlessly went back to him and lay by his side, treating him as gently as possible.

Who in the fuck taught her that? He couldn't even begin to conceive of where she'd gotten the idea to do that. Who had she overheard? Sweet, naive Sansa was showing signs of some deeper womanly knowledge that shocked him. He tightened his jaw, his body was completely void of energy.

"If you really don't want milk of the poppy, you don't have to take it." She smiled at him, kissing his burnt cheek.

"I'm your prisoner, little bird. Seven hells, girl- there is only so much a man can take."

"I shall have to remember that later. What will it be, then?"

"Sleep, no poppies. I don't want to be healed if that means being deprived of you."

She smiled and kissed him again.

"You must promise me, then, to be good and not thrash around when you are awake. You must swear it to me."

"I swear it."

"Good."

Sansa and Sandor fell asleep together-Sandor, depleted and Sansa, elated-she'd won again. She needed rest- for tomorrow, she was going back to the Elder House.


	5. Chapter 21-25

Chapter Twenty One

"Maester Luwin, please make sure that Rickon doesn't bother Sandor too much. I shouldn't even permit him to play around him when he is still healing."

"I shall stay with them all day. If he plays too roughly I will make sure he's returned to his room."

"Bugger that-the boy's going to learn to fight today." Sandor bellowed at them. He'd been propped up in the bed and was looking senselessly bored. He'd had a guard drag up a bag of grain with Rickon, who was excitedly holding a wooden play sword. "This fine little fellow is going to learn to use that thing properly."

Rickon brandished the sword in the air, striking his finest fighting stance. Sansa rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Do not indulge him, Sandor. He's a little beast, like you."

"Good. Then he won't have trouble learning."

Sansa pulled on her cloak and shook her head again. She supposed it was best to allow Sandor to do something-anything to stave off what would be an otherwise awful day for him. Being bedridden didn't suit his disposition and she could tell that he was bitter that she was going off on her own today. She kissed Sandor on his forehead-she felt shy about kissing him on the lips in front of her brother and the Maester. She turned on her heels and was out the door, on her way to the Elder House.

Sandor had insisted that she take what she considered to be too many guards, in addition to Bran, Summer and Hodor. Bran wanted to get out of the house. He was feeling pent up and aggressive-he needed to do something, and she wanted to start helping him prepare for the future of Winterfell, though she scarcely knew what they would do. She felt that they were too young and inexperienced to take care of the keep-and now that there was no one else left, Bran had become the Lord of Winterfell. She could tell that the title was weighing heavy on his little shoulders.

They walked in silence, Bran strapped atop Hodor's back. She realized that she really liked the quiet simpleton and was glad for him to be around. He had such a sweet demeanor-she wanted to call him a Stark. She had begun wanting to call everyone who'd shown them kindness Stark-as though that name now meant generosity and loving kindness.

The Elder House was already going through some improvements. Bran had already arranged to have a few carpenters and stone masons go ahead of them to make the changes that Sansa had discussed with him. There would be a few rooms added onto the house-furniture would be brought in, the walls would be reinforced. The hot springs that existed under Winterfell went as far as the Godswood and a trench was being dug so that the walls could be heated. Everything would be improved; the house would be made anew. Bran seemed satisfied at the progress being made.

"Sansa-I need to speak with you in privacy today." Bran whispered to her as they stood in front of the house. "We need to start making arrangements. We have to do something."

Sansa nodded her approval. Hodor took Bran into the house and she followed-the giant unstrapped him and left the two of them alone. Sansa realized that they had never spent much time with each other, and in many ways were strangers to one another. Bran looked like an awkward little boy, and she felt like she was so much older than when they had known one another.

"Sansa, I must assemble a small council. I cannot only rely on Maester Luwin for advice. He is wise and he is helpful, but I am worried that he doesn't know things-practical things, like defense and coin. Sister, Winterfell is in ruins. I cannot allow it to remain so. Winter is coming. I need help."

"Shades of our Father." She smiled.

"I know-I need to ask you for a favor. I need Sandor."

"In what way?"

"He is a lord now-I want him to take this house as a Keep and grow it. I want Winterfell to have many lordships. I want him to advise and to train the Northern Guards. They've been completely devastated by the loss of the North. Everything is in shambles. We are out of money, I have no military experience-I want to be a good Lord, somehow. I need him to help me, Sansa."

"I don't know how he'll feel about accepting a Lordship."

"He must accept it. He's married to a Lady of Winterfell. I understand that he doesn't like titles-but I need him. He is my brother now, too. He's one of us. He saved everything, Sansa. Therefore, I owe him everything."

"You do not. He didn't do it for titles."

"I know. But I still am in his debt."

"You sound like a Lannister."

"I don't have worm lips!"

They laughed at this.

"Brother, I don't want to live the life of a high lady right now. I want to take this keep with Sandor, but I want to live in a different way. If I have a staff I want it to be limited. I don't want to milk our resources because we were born with titles. I know what has been done to our realm and I don't want to live frivolously. I want to work, too. If Sandor sits on your council I wish to do things, as well. I want to mend clothes and cook and help rebuild. I want to help with the council-I could listen to the smallfolk who have lost their men in the battles, help them somehow. I don't want to be some bloated, awful family who sits on their titles like spoiled children."

Bran smiled, as did Sansa. There was a sudden, silent accord that was struck between the two of them. A sort of vow of betterment. Outside, Summer began howling like mad. Sansa stood up and crossed to the window, looking out at the yard. She saw Summer playing with something in the snow-a little ball of silver and brown that scurried around.

She opened the door and called to Hodor to come in and sit with Bran while she went to see what Summer had found. A ring of guards stood around the perimeter of the yard, so she felt safe enough to wander outside alone. She approached Summer, curious. She gasped when she saw what he was playing with-a small direwolf puppy that looked malnourished in the snow. The little dog immediately ran to Sansa and began lapping at her outstretched hand. She took the little thing-a little girl, it seemed-into her arms and cradled it. She was overjoyed.

She held the dog and immediately thought of her father, and of Lady. She took it back with her into the house as proud as she could be. Bran smiled brightly.

"The pack is growing! This is a good sign, isn't it?" Bran exclaimed.

"I think it is. You are right. Winter is coming. We belong to Winterfell, not the other way around. We shall do everything in our power to hold the North together. I will convince Sandor to help you. I promise it."

Before they left, Sansa went and looked at the new coat-of-arms that she had designed. It was a dog and a bird on a white field with no words beneath it. She didn't want a house motto yet. She only wanted some symbol of the Clegane of the North Keep.

They wordlessly turned back to Winterfell-the guards, Hodor, Bran and Summer-Sansa and the puppy. She'd not decided on a name. She felt both a bird and a wolf-she was set in her resolve to dig her heels in and help restore Winterfell. She'd only have to find some way to convince her husband that he was a Lord. She was sure she'd find some way.

22. Snarling

Chapter Twenty Two

Sandor wanted to protest when Maester Luwin insisted that Rickon end his lessons for the day. He gave good enough reasons for it-Rickon had gotten too worked up while play fighting and turned on Sandor, smashing him across the chest with his wooden sword. Where this amused Sandor, it aggravated Maester Luwin. After all, Sandor was the one who wanted to see how hard Rickon could strike with his wooden sword; it was he that told him to hit him in his open palm as hard as he could and keep Sandor from snatching his sword away. The boy had just gotten over zealous and went for another blow. Smart fucking kid. Sandor decided that he wouldn't protest and whine along with Rickon who didn't want to leave any more than Sandor wanted him to. He tried to be as much as a disciplinarian as he could, sternly reprimanding Rickon while keeping a smile in his eye. He knew that Rickon could read him like some penny-minstrel.

In many ways Rickon was becoming one of his favorite people. He liked his wildness, his beastly-ness, his total and complete inability to control his urges. The little boy was brazen, brave, if not a little stupid with his confidence. He was a small little thing, nothing like Sandor when he'd been a boy. Sandor had been so large he was awkward-he was always bigger than everything, save of course for his brother. Rickon was the same age he had been when he was mutilated. In many ways he wished that Rickon was his own son. While he genuinely liked Bran, the boy was silent and stoic and serious, difficult to read and to connect to-he was still very much a child, but Sandor could recognize that he would grow to be a great man one way or another.

The silence of the room without Sansa or Rickon suddenly became very uncomfortable. He'd sworn to Sansa that he wouldn't get up and try to exert himself before she'd deemed him healed enough to do so. He knew that he should start moving about sooner rather than later, but he was bound by his ability to control his urges and sink into the rhythms of obedience. He didn't like having too much downtime; he didn't at all like being isolated in Sansa's childhood room. It was as though the room was her, filled with her essence-but without her, it felt like a void. It was a sounding board for all of the thoughts that he had spent most of his life pushing down. He almost wanted to cry out for a guard to go and fetch him some wine or ale from the kitchen, or lean over and take the milk of the poppy that was sitting on the sideboard table. If he drank-which he'd decided to swear off since he'd taken Sansa as his wife-he'd surely be sour and cruel by the time she returned home. He couldn't trust himself not to become mean and cold and callous towards her. If he took the milk of the poppy he'd miss her altogether. To see her and enjoy her he'd have to contend with his own inner dialogue. Gods be damned.

He decided to close his eyes and force himself to go to sleep. But it did no good. When he closed his eyes he saw the same stream of shit he'd been seeing for most of his lifetime-his fucking brother, the fucking Lannisters. He remembered every moment of being the Lannister retainer: years of being called "Dog", being led around like a mongrel. He remembered feeling like one, as though he had really transformed into a snarling mutt. His entire life became fighting, eating, marking his territory, and obeying his master's call. He remembered the first time he'd come to King's Landing-he'd insulted Sansa's older brother. He'd followed Joffrey around, some stupid shadow. He remembered seeing Sansa for the first time, the way her eyes held no knowledge of pain or hurt or terror. He'd remember running into Sansa at the Trident, the way she was afraid of him and the way she was absorbed in her happiness at seeing the King Cunt Joffrey. Every time she'd look at Joffrey he'd had no choice but to look at her. These feelings brought up sick jealousy coupled with a muffled rage within him. Bugger the little dead fucker. You've married her, he didn't. Move on. He wanted to let it go, but it ate at his deeper insecurities. The bandage over his eye worried him-would he be further disfigured? How could Sansa be pleased to be seen with him if he were even further ruined. He had to do something to prove himself to her, make himself slightly worthy of her.

He closed his eyes tighter, forcing himself to sleep. Finally his will bent to submit to himself and he was out cold, for at least a few hours.

He woke up to Sansa and a simple daily pattern of living that lasted for the next few days. They would wake up together; she would feed him, tend to his wounds and change his bandaging. She'd call in Maester Luwin to check on her progress, to make sure that she'd applied his eye compress properly. He'd smile softly at her and praise her for her efforts, she would blush and become overwhelmed with her pride. Sandor would want to roll his eyes at her but always controlled himself. For the rest of the day she treated him calmly and quietly and would delight him by taking him into her mouth when he became hard. She'd forced him into his regiment of stillness and would sometimes crawl upon his cock and take care of herself. He would lie still and watch her as she got her pleasure from him rather than with him-he liked the way she was using him, the way her body would shiver when she came-the way she would always make sure that he came as well. He was nearly becoming happy with being an invalid when Sansa finally announced that it was time for her to pull all of his stitches out.

"This might hurt a little bit." She said as she took a pair of her little embroidery shears into her hands: she began cutting away his linen bandages, throwing them to the floor. They had an awful smell, the combined scent of pus from healing and the heat from his skin smelled sickening. She didn't seem to notice as she began to cut through the tops of the stitches, pulling them out from his skin. He was impressed that she didn't look away, but worked steadfastly on him.

"Is that uncomfortable?"

"No, little bird, you are doing just fine."

She beamed at him and at her accomplishment. Soon enough she'd removed all his stitches, keeping them all in a little pile on her lap. She began unwrapping the bandages around his head, pulling them off slowly. She took off his compress and smiled.

"How bad am I?" Sandor asked, bemused. I'm sure no more handsome than I was before.

"It could have been much worse."

The "good side" of his face would now be relative. Thank the Gods that his eye was saved-he'd be no one eyed monster-but the scar that was dragged across his face went deep. She was pleased with how well it had healed, but she was loathe to tell Sandor how bad it actually was. It was a raised scar that went from his hairline to his lip. It had cut through his eyebrow completely, bisecting it in two. It did nothing to diminish his frightening look. Perhaps he'd be pleased with that.

"Well, little bird?"

"It's fine, my love."

"Is it, now? Bring me your hand mirror."

"Ö It hasn't completely healed yet. Don't gaze upon it just yet."

"Sansa, my stitches are out. Bring it to me or I'll just get up and walk to one myself."

She exhaled deeply and brought him the mirror. He didn't react when he saw his reflection. The only thing that betrayed any emotion was his face. It twitched in the way that it did when he was deeply displeased. His eyes showed no signs of rage, but of disappointment. She bent over the kiss him on his new scar, but he turned away sharply.

"Leave it be, little bird. For fuck's sake, you don't have to pretend to love every last one of my imperfections."

"That isn't very kind. I told you not to look in the mirror. You chose to, I'm only trying to help."

"Then fucking stop it. I don't need your pity. Look at you-you've just had to pull stitches out of my body and now you have to kiss my grotesque face. You've abandoned everything for me. You must be stupid-you settled for me, for a life of staring at a beast and waiting on me like I'm an invalid. You may pity me but I pity you as well." Why the fuck did I just say that?

Before he had the opportunity to apologize she was upon her feet. She shot him an icy look.

Abruptly, he sat up and tugged at her arm as hard as he could, pulling her into bed with him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I swear it. I just didn't like seeing my face ruined once more. Please, I'm so sorry."

"Fine." She said simply, wiggling her arm out of his hands. She looked at him and felt a pause. She would get angry when she'd seen her face in the mirror after Joffrey's guards would beat her. She supposed that it was only natural to react poorly when you were damaged and there was no reversing it. "I don't pity you. I kissed your scar because it is a part of you that I haven't kissed before. You mustn't be so angry all of the time, especially with me. Beside, I've a surprise for you."

"What sort of surprise?"

"Ale and meat? How would that be?"

Sandor rolled his eyes again.

"You should get up and walk about the room, stretch your legs. I intend to leave Winterfell tonight."

He looked at her, completely confused, and she twirled away from him, walking out of the room, making him feel very alone and very ashamed, again.

23. the Raven

Chapter Twenty Three

Maester Luwin stood watching the sky, unsure of what was to come. Theon Greyjoy had managed to kill all of the Winterfell ravens; all contact had been cut off from the world. He felt the hardening wind on his face, could feel the change in the seasons-he closed his eyes and drifted off to another world, fully disconnected from his body for a moment. The chains on this world which bound him to his body felt looser at that moment-as though his body had become a lightning rod for what was to come and what had already been. He heard the wind, the sounds of Winterfell-the settling of stones, the air singing its songs. He heard the ravens again, a cry against the gloaming. He put his hand out, feeling the entirety of Winterfell. He was shocked and was dropped out of his dream state when he felt something land upon his open palm. He drew in a startled breath when he saw it. A raven-not one of his, clearly, but a raven still. Wrapped around its leg was a note.

O o O

Sansa hadn't come back yet-she was still doing something, whatever the fuck that was only the Gods knew. He was annoyed to hear a knocking at his door as he hobbled around the room, trying to ease his legs into functioning after having been bedridden.

"Open the door yourself!" He growled, trying to work on a tense spot out of his ankles.

Maester Luwin let himself in, his face looking like a weirwood.

"What's Rickon done this time?" Sandor smirked. "Where's Little Bird?"

"Lord Clegane-A raven has come."

"That's a relief. The world is once again whole." Sandor was feeling smarmy, the way he'd felt when he'd not had enough wine yet. He sneered as he talked, impatient and angry by the low aching pain in his legs. He was secretly nervous that something had been irrevocably damaged in his tendons or knees. Maester Luwin regarded him with a stony countenance.

"I came to deliver this without Lady Sansa."

"I can see that plainly. Why?"

"Lord Clegane, the Raven is addressed to you. I haven't read the message yet. I thought you'd prefer privacy."

"I don't give a damn for any of that." He said, straining to move to get the message. His stomach was churning as he walked. There was no one desirable that would contact him.

"Should I stay for a moment?" Maester Luwin inquired, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

"Yes, I think you ought to." Sandor was suddenly very quiet as he unfolded the note, rolling it over in his hands before he began shredding it to pieces.

"Seven fucking hells-"

"May I inquire as to what the letter says? Does it regard Winterfell?"

"I'll tell you word for word what the fucking letter says, Maester. It says 'You've taken Winterfell without me. News travels even without Ravens. Prepare your home to welcome me, I will arrive in a fortnight. Signed Gregor Clegane.' That's what the fucking letter says. Call for a guard, I need ale. Now!"

Maester Luwin turned and yelled down the hallway, but no one came. Winterfell had been so decimated that there weren't enough attendants for anything to get done. Maester Luwin offered apologies, none of which seemed to reach Sandor.

Sandor had sunk onto the bed, his face black with rage.

"You tell no one what this note has said tonight. I want to speak to Bran in the morning. We have to prepare-" He trailed off. No fucking ale, no fucking wine, nothing. "Send Little Bird to me. She must hear of this first."

Maester Luwin nodded and turned to leave. As soon as Sandor couldn't hear his footsteps he slammed his fist repeatedly into Sansa's headboard, sending splinters into his knuckles.

24. Everything Burns

Chapter Twenty Four

Fuck his fortnight, the bastard has no reason to tell the truth. Fuck everything.

When Sansa had entered the room, Sandor lost all nerve. He couldn't explain why his hands were bleeding, why her bed was ruined-why the room was frosted with little bits of paper strewn about haphazardly. He could only regard her with a feeling like none that he'd had before. He wasn't going to say a word about Gregor until after she gave him his promised surprise. He'd decided that he would be utterly selfish and give himself a final night of happiness with her, at whatever cost. After all, he didn't expect to live to see the next month. Killing his brother would be impossible if he wasn't willing to die in the process. He'd die for her, for all of them.

Sandor carried Rickon on his back through the snow, his fingers interlaced with Sansa's. Before they'd left to start off for the Elder House Rickon had bounded down the hall and painfully attached himself to Sandor's leg. The pain that his arms gave him left him shaken, sent a sickening shock through his entire body. So this is what weakness feels like.

The three traveled through the Godswood in a foggy blissfulness-Rickon held onto Sandor's neck sleepily, Sansa held onto a handful of Winterblooms that Sandor had picked from her from the base of a tree. The snow looked like glass under the moonlight, the snow fell like shaved silver. Sandor kept his wife's hand pressed into his, holding it firmly without crushing her fingertips. He studied every feeling that went through him, counted up his joy during this walk. He felt incapacitated by how happy he was, how utterly fragile the entire world appeared to be for him. So this is what weakness feels like.

The Elder's House appeared in the woods-it was lit up with candles and torches on the outside. It glowed golden, like twigs in a low hot fire. Sansa had arranged for what attendants could be sparred to prepare the house for their re-arrival and leave before they returned. Candles and fires had been lit, there was food waiting upon the table. Her direwolf pup waited to be introduced while it laid on the floor, sleeping quietly. Sandor was led into this house and understood what Sansa meant to do with it. Somehow carpenters and stone men had managed to expand the cottage into a home-there were new bedrooms with humble yet sturdy furniture, more of everything. The house was a simple abundance personified-it felt as though the house were breathing, as alive as any soul.

"Let's put Rickon to bed." She whispered. He clung onto Sandor with a sleepy countenance and argued when they tried to tuck him in. Sansa left the room while Sandor roughed up the boys hair, trying to bargain with him to go to sleep.

"I'll only go to sleep if you promise that you'll teach me to play with swords tomorrow."

"I promise."

"And tomorrow after tomorrow."

"And tomorrow after tomorrow."

"And every tomorrow after that. Promise me you won't leave me like mama and papa did."

Sandor paused, the question felt like he'd been given a strong blow to the chest. He didn't have any sarcastic thoughts, any anger at all. Nothing but the steely wash of blue sadness. This is what a broken heart feels like.

"I promise. Every tomorrow and tomorrow after." He said, patting Rickon on the head. "Now go to sleep."

He sat and watched as Rickon drifted off, and touched the boys hand lightly. Another dagger of pain. He wouldn't have moved if she wasn't waiting for him.

He closed the door quietly and stared at her sitting before the fire, playing with her pup. She was the queen of love and beauty, his little bird. He'd stolen her and now he'd die for her. His face twitched as a knot grew in his throat.

"I've named her Lemon." She said, giggling. Her favorite thing, lemoncakes. He smiled and bent over the play with the animal. Sansa kissed him on the slashed cheek, running her fingers over his hand. "Do you love her?"

"Forever."

He scooped her up in his arms, trying to disregard the stabbing in his leg. He took them to their bed, their marriage bed, kissing her while he carried her.

"Is this my surprise, Little Bird?"

"Only a part of it."

Sansa had made sure that there was clothing cut to his size delivered as well, along with boots and a plethora of swords that had been abandoned in the armory. She trusted and had faith in the generosity that the house had shown them but decided against relying on it. She wanted to fend for herself, to make arrangements for her keep on her own. She was sure that she'd seen to every provision and need-the three extra bedrooms built onto the house, the covered walk path that led to the stables where she'd had Stranger taken back to-bedding, firewood, wine, water, salted pork, fruit, socks, smallclothes-there was no gap in the details that she could think of. She'd fretted over every last possibility during Sandor's stay in the sick bed and was sure that she had succeeded in making her home. She demonstrated everything that was his in his new room. She smiled happily, excited to share everything.

"I'm speechless." He said, meaning every word of it. He could only drink her in, marvel at her generosity and love. He'd at least die having been loved. He steeled his resolve, taking her in.

"Do you want to know the rest of your surprise?" She asked, giddy yet shaking. He silently nodded, wondering if she'd sewn him something ridiculous and embarrassing and perfect. Instead of giving him anything, she took his big hand and placed it against her stomach. It curved slightly under his hand.

"Do you know what that is?" She asked him quietly, her blue eyes full of delight.

"Your stomach, little bird."

"A baby."

And time stopped. Everything slowed around him. The world cracked in two and nothing existed but his wife, this house, and what was beneath his hand.

"You are giving me a child?" He asked breathlessly.

"Yes. Maester Luwin examined me and said that I am most certainly pregnant. Aren't you overjoyed?"

And then he felt it-the exact pain of his first burn. He remembered it completely, every second recorded on his mind forever. He remembered being pulled up by the fucking monster, his entire body being thrashed about until he was senseless. When he was shoved to the coals everything went slow. His eyes shut as tight as they could and he could feel his hair singing off first. He turned his head as far from the fire as he could, but to no avail. The fire almost had a sound that he could feel in his teeth-a high pitched humming that sounded like metal sharpening-the fire was alive, too. As his skin touched coals everything amplified into this screaming nightmare. He didn't pass out, he didn't go black-he went into a madness, a feeling that goes beyond whatever a human should ever feel. The screaming of the coals, the pain so sharp and absolute it was almost like freezing to death. And finally, nothing for a few sweet moments. And then everything at once. His body was only defined by pain, the most extraordinarily nightmarish feeling imaginable.

And then he could feel his baby inside her, felt as though he knew it already. Before he could speak his knee gave way from under him, and he was kneeling on the floor. Everything was spinning. He won't take my fucking child from me. I am going to kill that fucking monster and live to shit on his corpse.

He opened his mouth to finally respond but began shaking, feeling as though he was going to vomit.

"Aren't you happy?" Sansa asked, distressed.

"I'll love you and this child forever." He managed to choke out. He could literally feel Gregor's hands on the back on his neck again. He was coming to take this away from him. His bones could feel the fire. And once again, everything went black. He couldn't see anything until tears began falling from his eyes in torrents.

"I've never known any happiness more than this." He whimpered.

He'd have stayed on his knees forever had Rickon not begun screaming.

Chapter Twenty Five

"I didn't mean to! I swear!" Rickon was shaken, his hands were clamped in knots around his blanket. "I killed someone. Please make it stop!"

Sandor scooped Rickon up out of bed. "You've had a dream. That's all, a dream."

"It was real!"

"Just a bad dream. You'll be fine."

Sansa watched Sandor as he transferred Rickon from his bed to their bed, putting him in the middle so that he could sleep between them. He moved as carefully as a Septa, his every action deliberately gentle. He called for Shaggydog to come into the room, motioning for the direwolf to jump up onto the bed, too.

"You and Shaggydog can sleep with us, tonight." Sandor suggested, Rickon's face lit up.

"And tomorrow we'll still play with swords?"

"And tomorrow I will teach you everything that I know." He replied. He moved to the pile of swords and daggers that Sansa had stockpiled from the armory. He picked up a small sword, nearly a dagger with a carved hilt and a sharp blade. "You'll learn with this and not wooden swords."

Sandor held the sword with some misgivings. The boy's dreaming something awful. Why the fuck did I tell Sansa that her brothers would be killers? That killing is the sweetest thing there is. Who the fuck feels like that? The last fucking thing that I want is for Rickon to have to kill a man. It didn't matter, though. He'd be damned if he didn't at least try to make sure that no matter what Rickon could fend for himself. With Gregor on the way all he wanted to do was the assure himself that the boy would know no harm.

Sansa saw Sandor suddenly turn to her, as though he had something that he desperately wanted to say. He held the sword and his eyes looked like river rocks. She furrowed her brow, trying to hear what he might be thinking. He suddenly set the sword by the bedside, and began dragging several more swords to place next to it. What on this earth is he doing? He opened his mouth, and it went slackjaw before he blurted it out.

"A raven's come. From Harrenhall."

"Harrenhall? Whatever for?"

"Its my fuc-my brother." He watched his tongue in front of the boy.

"Gods. What does he want? I thought he'd been killed."

"As had I. He rides on Winterfell. I didn't want to tell you. I don't know what to do."

Sansa quietly motioned towards Rickon and nodded her head towards the door. It would be better to take this conversation elsewhere her face was trying to say. The stepped out of the room and out of the house, into the coldness of the stony night.

"How long have you known?"

"Only since earlier."

"Is that why the room was ruined?"

"Yes."

"How long do we have?"

"He says a fortnight, but I would only give him two days at the most."

Sansa nodded quietly, much more brave that he'd imagined. She looked at himóher protector, her sword, her husband.

"Sandor, please, before he comes accept your lordship. Bran wants you to be a lord and make this house your keep. He wants you to be on his small council. Please agree to it, command Winterfell and the Northern Guard. We can rally what's left of them against him. We can have him killed before he even touches Winterfell."

Sandor nodded his head, but said nothing. His eyes were plunged into this distant place that Sansa couldn't reach. She'd seen him fight his brother before-she knew that he could best him. She was sure of it. She took his hand and led him back inside, where they crawled into bed and fell asleep with Rickon between them.

Sandor awoke with little feet in his face. Rickon had managed to turn himself over in the middle of the night. Like always, Sandor awoke before the sun. He dressed himself quickly, going through the difficulty of putting his armor on without a squire. He then went out to the stables and looked for old sacks of grain to give to Rickon for his training. While he began dragging out the supplies a shining piece of small armor caught his eyes. He wanted to laugh, realizing what he saw. A full set of armor made for a child. Gods, this fucking house.

He began pulling the pieces out and recognized that they were tailor made for Rickon.

And then he did start laughing. He could hardly contain himself, everything seemed so obvious.

I'm not going to kill the bastard in Winterfell. I'm going to kill him in my own keep.


	6. Chapters 26-35

26. The Mountain

Fucking Gods. Of course there wouldn't be enough time.

The Northern Guards rode abreast, each of their eyes glazed over with uncertainty. Sandor grabbed Rickon and quickly yanked the boy behind him, probably harder than he should have. Rickon didn't protest and seemed to understand that something was terribly wrong. Sandor stood his ground, holding onto the hilt of his sword with a vengeance. Behind the flank of Northern Guards, his fucking brother sat astride a massive gray and black destrier. A captive sat behind him, a little boy wearing a boiled leather jerkin with a hood secured over his head. The air crackled with the nervousness of the guards, everything felt like it was about to explode with tension. No doubt the guards knew of The Mountain that Moved and his bloodlust.

"Brother-your guards suggested that I meet you here instead of Winterfell. I thought I'd have to rip out their fucking guts for lying to me!" Gregor's voice exploded. It sent a dread wave through the men and a column of pure white hatred into Sandor's spine.

"Away-protect Bran and Winterfell!" Sandor shouted at the guards, not allowing his eyes to leave his brother. The Northern Guards didn't question this command-they quickly turned on their horses and went galloping away as speedily as they could manage. "Unhorse, Gregor. Approach me on foot as I meet you."

"Ha! You meet me? I've come to take what you've stolen, you insolent fuck. I don't like that which is mine to be toyed with."

"And what is that?"

"You've taken Winterfell. I heard about it, clear as day. You've taken it in your name which isn't yours to take. I'm the head of House Clegane, if you haven't forgotten. You've gone craven and clearly need to learn a lesson about a dog's duties."

"Unhorse, Gods damn you."

"I have an exchange. I'll unhorse if you go to your knees and swear fealty to me, and I'll only cut off your hands to remind you of the sin of taking from your brother. You then won't have anything to use to rape the Stark slut you've taken on as a wife."

Sandor's face twitched. He couldn't respond to that comment-he wouldn't dare betray his marriage to Gregor, lest he go straight into the house and try to kill his wife. "You'll have my hands only after I use them to pull your throat out by your ass. Unhorse, you fucking coward. Face your brother like a man, damn you. Then I'll rape you, too!"

Gregor stayed astride the destrier. Sandor could feel Sansa in the house, he was suddenly connected to her in the most unearthly way. Don't come out here, little bird. Stay inside. Do not come out.

Without word Gregor dug his heels into the animal and went full charge at Sandor. Sandor threw Rickon to the ground and rushed forward, using his sword to slice through the air. As soon as the horse got near enough to him it reared up and Sandor plunged his sword into its belly, throwing Gregor and the boy off of it. Warm blood filled the air, misting the snow until it was pink.

"Rickon, run!" He growled at the boy, unable to turn around. He kept his eyes locked on his brother while he hoisted himself up, brandishing his own sword. His captive was knocked to the ground and Sandor figured that it was dead when it didn't shiver or try to get back up.

Without word Gregor charged Sandor, swords locking instantly. The two shoved into one another, tilting against their own weight. They exchanged equilatoral blows, knocking one another in mirror form. No matter how much Sandor hated his brother, he knew that they met and fought as equals.

Sansa stood at the window and held her hand over her mouth, fighting a scream. They were too close to the house-she could see every movement that the two made as they locked against one another. She wanted to run out to Sandor but was betrayed by something within her that wouldn't allow her to move. She was frozen to the spot, her entire body shaking. She stared at the little body that laid in the snow, wondering if it was dead. It stirred for an instant, as though it wanted to wake.

Sandor finally broke free of the struggle and sent a good blow into Gregor's side, sending him into the snow. He moved forward and struck him again, ready to kill him. He extended his leg and something went horribly wrong. The tendon in his knee gave out completely and he went down-he landed another blow onto Gregor before he sank into the snow. He frantically tried to pull himself up, but could not. Gregor tried to get up himself, so Sandor struck him again as hard as he could. The blow sent Gregor back down.

As he fell Gregor lunged into Sandor, delivering a sharp blow between the ribs of Sandor's armor. He hit chain mail that broke like dry leaves, hit flesh then muscle then bone. He turned his blade as he fell, trying to steady himself. As Gregor pulled out the blade a great direwolf was upon him, ripping his hand from the hilt of the sword. A small knight plunged a dagger-like sword through his eyeball, piercing his brain. The little knight thrust the blade over and over through Gregor's eyes, pulling out the pink-grey chunks of his brains, the whites of his eyeballs and fountains of blood. The Mountain was dead, and Sandor laid in the snow dying.

Sansa screamed from inside of the house. She watched as her little brother became covered in the blood of a man, as red blood pumped from her husband's side. Rickon fainted and Shaggydog pulled him off the body, guarding him and snarling at the wind. She watched as the other little boy rose and pulled off his hood, yanking a blade from his belt. She ran out of the house and into the snow, barefoot, followed by Lemon.

"No!" She screamed as the little boy went and stood above Sandor, blade ready for the death blow. "Arya, no!"

27. Mother, Font of Mercy

Arya ran the hit list through her mind as she approached him, her constant mantra. She stopped at him: The Hound, The Hound, The Hound- She held the dagger steady in both hands and hoisted it above her head. She would dance the way the Braavosi taught her. There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in her movements as she slid the blade through the air and caught the wind. There was only the steel that was prepped and ready to hit flesh-only the strength in her arms and of her resolve.

It was against her will when she turned to see her sister running to her. She dropped the blade into the reddening snow and collapsed, inches away from Sandor Clegane's throat.

0

Sansa collapsed into hysterics. Sandor's breath was only coming in at short, painful gasps. He struggled for air like a fish out of water, his entire chest heaving and sputtering out blood. He was choking on his own fluids as they rose through everything that had been ravaged within him. A length of his blood trickled out from his lips as his side pumped it out, melting the snow. Like a mad woman Sansa tried to pile his flesh back together, pulling his skin and guts back into his body. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't get him to stop bleeding, to make the wound magically disappear. The blood ran so thick it turned black, and steam rose from it.

0

Sandor couldn't feel any pain, just a fleeting numbness. He was above himself, outside of his consciousness, adrift. He couldn't turn himself around, make himself re-enter his body. He could feel her-everything was Sansa; the red of her hair, the white of her fingertips, the softness of her breathe. He left her to be enveloped in her, and suddenly he was letting go. He imagined that he held his hand out to her and said his goodbyes. He was enveloped into a blue nothingness.

His heart stopped. Arya retreated away from her sister, suddenly in a panic. She hadn't realized where she was. She'd been kidnapped by The Mountain at Riverrun and rode the entire journey with a hood over her head. She was only promised the death of one of the names on her hit list-she only knew that she was one step closer to decimating that which had helped ruin her family. She could only focus on death, no other potential. When it dawned on her that she'd been taken home, that the Hound had gone craven and now protected Winterfell she was frightened, sickened. She stood shaking in the Godswood, terrified to be home.

0

Without hesitation, Rickon had ran back to Winterfell as fast as his little legs could carry him. Maester Luwin was rushed to the Elder House along with some of the Northern Guards. They found Arya walking in a haze first-she quietly directed them to Sansa who was trying to drag Sandor's now cold body back into the house, away from Gregor's body made red from his own blood and brains. His own blood had melted the snow and he was sunk into the whiteness, as though the earth were trying to swallow him up whole. Sansa couldn't speak when they approached her, but rather screamed and choked out sounds that were not of this earth. She felt like her insides had been scooped out altogether and she could do nothing but rave. She gesticulated wildly as she sobbed, desperately trying to get Sandor back into the house. She had no hope of moving him by herself.

The guards assisted her in dragging the body back into the house, where Maester Luwin quietly and calmly declared him dead. His voice was heavy with sympathies and regret as Sansa clutched his sleeve and begged him to do something. He couldn't get through to her that there was nothing to be done.

0

Night fell and Sansa sat by his corpse, holding onto his sword. She shivered, though she was not cold. She loudly sang to the Mother, to the Warrior, to the Old Gods, begging them for something-mercy on his soul, mercy on hers-but mostly just that they return him to her. She prayed that this nightmare be reversed. Her tears had quit falling and were replaced by dry heaves-her voice had grown raspy and her entire body trembled as she tried to summon some strength. She'd banished everyone from the house-Maester Luwin, Rickon, the guards, and especially Arya. She was completely alone save for the direwolf that lapped at her feet and tried to comfort her. There was no hope of that. That was the exact thing-there was no hope, only the horror of the void of death.

She'd had Sandor laid out on their bed. She wrapped him in sheets that were now doused in blood, removed his shoes and as much of his armor as she possible. She couldn't bear to think of him uncomfortable, even in death. She climbed beside his body and tried to shove herself as far into him as she could. She sobbed and screamed until she could no longer stay awake. She begged him to wake up until there was no more breath in her to speak. She wrapped one of his heavy, limp arms around her and she fell asleep. Everything was cold.

She woke up to a strange feeling on her stomach, a clenching pressure around her. The sun had not risen outside yet and the entire world felt eerily calm. She heard something-heavy breathing in the room. Afraid, she dug deeper into Sandor's dead body and was alarmed to find it warm. Without thought she placed her hand on his chest. It rose and fell slowly. She placed a hand on his face-it was warm, too. Unsure of what to feel, she gently shook him until he started coughing.

She cried out when he opened his eyes and furrowed his brow.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice raspy and dry. "Where am I?"

28. The Living

Sandor's sister stood there with his father and his mother. They looked alive, awash in light. He hadn't imagined the dead to look as though they had not perished. There wasn't a sign of rot or a sign of change. They were whole and real and complete. He was startled to see them. Sandor turned to his sister and put his hand out to reach hers. She shook her head and didn't say a word-her eyes were filled up with a silent sadness. She smiled at him and lifted her hand away, and he looked down into his. Sansa's face was imprinted on his palm. He looked at his family and behind them in the distance saw the Godswood, the house, and Ned Stark watching over Sansa- the head of a league of Starks that had come before him, stretching all the way out into the first men. Ned turned to him and his voice rang in Sandor's ears.

"Winter is coming."

Sandor felt himself nodding against his will.

"Take Rickon as your own. Protect Winterfell. Help Bran. Love Sansa. Forgive Arya. Gods help us all."

Once again he agreed, nodding his head fervently. His arms were suddenly made heavy. Sandor could feel his child in his arms, and was snapped away from eternity.

Sandor awoke with a gasp and began coughing, unsure as to where he was.

0

Arya twisted the knife into the table, dragging the tip of the blade across the wood. The indentations it made went deep; her wrist was getting stronger and stronger. She pressed her palm into the hilt, feeling how solid it was beneath her fingers.

"Married to The Hound?" She asked, once again. She was incredulous. No one responded to her, but nodded quietly to her question. She didn't know how to feel about it-whether or not she should be impressed that Sansa stopped being so stupid and married a fighter, or disgusted that her sister had rutted with the Lannister Dog. She at least felt pity for her sister, had sense enough to feel badly that she was made a widow for so young. Of course, there was also the dread of everything which had transpired. She couldn't feel comfortable back at Winterfell. She'd seen too much atrocity to be who she once was. She felt like she was no one's daughter, much less a girl. She closed her eyes and thought of Syrio, Jaqen H'ghar, the Braavosi. Valar Morghulis.

Maester Luwin sat with the three Stark children over breakfast. He at least knew the way he felt-he was glad to have most of the children back in Winterfell safe and sound, though each broken. Bran was distracted and picked at his food, stopping only to ask a few questions about provisions and rebuilding. He'd lost his chance at forming a military council. He felt weakened. Rickon's eyes were puffy from crying. He knew his loss. He couldn't get the feeling of having killed out of his arms, shake it free. He hadn't managed to even save Sandor. His chance at a second Father was dead, just like his real one. Maester Luwin would go to Sansa after breakfast was finished and try to coax her into burying her husband, or at least to see about having Gregor Clegane buried, burntówhatever she wished. He'd have to council her through her grief. Deliver her child without a father. Help her prepare for a new life. The second Stark widow between Winters.

0

Time froze, everything was crystalline. The sky had emptied a great deal of snow overnight-the world was buried in stillness. Icicles like daggers hung from the trees and the roof while the snow came down in flurries. Sandor felt none of his wounds-they'd already sealed themselves up and had begun their healing process, unaided by time. He cradled Sansa and his unborn child in his arms, grateful to the Gods to be alive. He knew in his bones where he'd been and what had happened. There was no doubt that he had died-he hadn't gone into a coma or a sleep. He's been to the other side.

He'd swear that Sansa's stomach had grown more than he thought possible.

She could barely speak to him-what exactly does one say to someone who has died and has returned?

Instead of speaking they communicated through the silence in the gestures of their hands, the feelings of their bodies shifting against one another. When she would shift into him he would understand that she wanted to beg him never to leave her side. When he pulled her closer he would respond his promises. She cupped his face with her hand and looked at him with her eyes full of a serene sadness. He would slowly blink his thanks.

Sandor thought of his brother, whose body was still laying beneath the layer of new snow. The bastard was dead, thanks be to the Gods-but he knew he didn't give the final death blow. He remembered seeing Rickon's dog attack him, remembered Rickon landing upon him and laying into him. A little boy took down the mountain.

He didn't feel as relieved as he always thought he would have. As much as he hated his brother and dreamt of the day he'd died, his childhood pain was still upon him. Nothing had changed. The only thing which had shifted was that a little child had committed his first murder, one which Sandor felt that he had encouraged. Rickon's childhood was now in many ways over.

He now knew the flipside of killing. He knew that there wasn't an absolute end and extinguishing of life that killing took care of-it was only a necessity to keeping life safe. He'd spent his life killing on command, never once stopping to deliberate or consider peace. At least I wasn't greeted by all the men I killed when I died.

Winter is coming.

The last of the Clegane's Dogs has united with the wolves.

0

H Maester Luwin took care to make sure that Rickon was well bundled up and that Arya understood that she wasn't to chide her sister too much. They'd walk down to the Elder House and try to comfort her. Bran would stay behind in Winterfell. He was becoming obsessed with not leaving the grounds of the holdfast for any reason, no matter what it was. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Osha stayed behind with him, as she was becoming accustomed to.

"I want to see Sandor!" Rickon yelled out.

"Rickon, he's passed."

"No, he's back." Rickon said, sure of himself. Maester Luwin did not reply.

Arya rolled her eyes and groaned. She wasn't happy for Sansa's lost, but was glad that he was gone. Her list completed itself without her having to do the last of the work. Soon enough she would slip away and go to the Faceless Men to begin her training. The snow, which once delighted, was making her ill.

They started down the path, enveloped in silence.

29. Alive, Reprise

Sandor watched Sansa as she got up and left to answer the door. She knew who it would be-surely it would be Maester Luwin come down from Winterfell to check on her progress, council her through her mourning, prepare her for her future. Of course, that would be unnecessary now. She didn't know what she would say to him. Hello Maester. So good of you to come. You needn't concern over me. My husband has returned from the dead. No no, he isn't a Whitewalker. He's just alive. Of course. That wouldn't sound like madness.

Sandor appreciated the backside of her as she walked away and could sympathize with men who kept their wives in a constant state of pregnancy-her swollen body moved in the most utterly feminine way. Her teats had become heavier and her ass positively swayed as she walked. If it weren't that they were visited by someone he'd undress her and admire her growing body. What he would do afterwards he wasn't as sure on-he didn't know what he could do with a woman in her state and cringed at the idea of harming his child planted in her belly. When he closed his eyes all he could see was her-wandering through his thoughts, making pathways through his heart. On the other side of his death she was real.

He laid stoic in still in the bed, wondering what Sansa would do about informing whoever it was of his state. He was almost ashamed of himself-that he'd died and come back to life. The shame took root in many places-first, that he of all people, as unworthy as he felt himself to be, was allowed to live when so many other better men were allowed to die. His only consolation was that he could give himself to the preservation of the Stark family above all things. A little boy-the most precious child to his soul as he could imagine, a child he intended to take into his home as his child-had to kill for him. Nothing of this was acceptable. Death also indicated the most serious of defeats-that he had been taken down. He was not indefatigable. Perhaps he would be even more feared, this man who squashed even death. And buggering hell, I can't even mock the Gods in my own thoughts.

He heard Maester Luwin immediately, and was very gladdened to hear Rickon's voice behind him. Sandor quickly sat up and decided he'd dress himself. His body had none of the resounding pains of his death. Seven hells, alive.

0

Arya made the most repugnant of faces when she saw him alive. She couldn't be more annoyed to watch Rickon attach himself to his leg, the Hound dipping low to scoop the boy up into his arms. Sheer delight between the two made her ill. Was she the only one that knew? How could Sansa be so stupid, not remember? The awful dog watched as their father died. She saw him shove him forward when he buckled back. And this was how he was repaid for his treason against her family? What about Mycah? How was he repaid for that? With a home, her highborn sister for a wife, the love of her brothers? It was enough to make her regret not dunking that knife into his throat. Even worse, he'd died. She had seen him, dead in the earth. And now he was back. While her father was dead. While enough smallfolk laid in the ground at Harrenhall to outfit a small army. Gods, she was determined to leave this place as soon as possible.

0

Sansa watched the look that her sister made, and without thinking pinched her hard on the back of the neck. She shot Arya a stern look before taking her by the arm and dragging her outside.

"What is the meaning of your looks?" She demanded. So much for the promise that she made to herself to be ever gentle with her sister now that she had returned. "You are truly a little beast, aren't you?"

"Can it, Sansa. You're so stupid. You married a mutt. He's supposed to be dead!"

Sansa raised her hand to slap Arya across the face and only stopped when it was caught be Sandor who had come up behind her.

"She's your sister. Don't hurt her." He said gently, bending his knee to look Arya in the face. "You'd prefer to see me dead, wouldn't you girl?"

Arya looked him dead in the eyes. She didn't tear her eyes away from his horrible face. She only crumpled hers up more.

"I would." She puffed up her chest, barring her teeth.

Gods. She is a little wolf-bitch. He didn't give her the pleasure of a bad reaction. After all, she is still but a small girl.

"I've killed many a man in my day. I know what it means to want bloodshed more than life."

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Arya!"

"Little bird, go in and speak to Maester Luwin. I need to talk to this little wolf alone."

Sansa stood, refusing to budge.

"Little bird, we'll be alright."

Sansa rolled her eyes and went back inside, not before shooting Arya a look of death.

"I know your rage, little wolf. I know that your sister doesn't know half of the shit that you have been forced to wallow through. I don't know where you've been, but I know that if you travelled with my brother it was nowhere good. I also know that you've only seen me a Lannister dog. I'd want to see me dead, too."

"You didn't help my father! You killed Mycah."

"I did. I've killed a variety of men and women and children. I've done the most awful things a man can imagine. But I also saved your sister and have sworn to your fa- your house that I will defend it. I'm not asking you to like me or want me alive. But I think that you deserve to hear from me that I will not rest until Winterfell is protected. You don't have to forgive me or love me or like me. You're a strong little wolf girl. When you want to learn to fight more I'll help you."

"What do you mean, help me?"

"Don't think that I didn't know that you were learning from a Braavosi in King's Landing. Everyone knew that you were taking dancing lessons. Don't think that I also don't know that you kicked the shit out of Joffrey. You were born to fight. By the end of this winter you'll be as good as a knight." He laughed at the idea of this little lady becoming a ser.

She sighed, hard. "No. I'm leaving for Braavos."

"You'll not leave before Winter is over, little girl. Your place is here until the next Spring. Your sister and brothers need you. Winterfell is going to need you. If you stay and learn to fight through this Winter I will personally find a way to send you to Braavos. I swear it."

Arya raised an eyebrow at him as he extended his hand to shake hers. She timidly shook his hand while staring daggers at him.

She wouldn't like him or forgive him. But perhaps she could consider learning with him. He at least seemed open to allowing her to take a sword. Ugh, the Hound! I dread that I may one day grow to love him as a brother.

0

Rickon was asleep in bed. Maester Luwin had taken Arya back with him to Winterfell, still in a daze from gazing upon a dead man turned back to life. All of his training as a Maester should have prepared himóbut came somehow short. A dead man come back to life-

Sansa latched the bedroom door shut to keep Rickon from waking and trying to make his way into their bed from a bad dream. Her body ached for her husband, a desperation to have him. She turned towards Sandor and stood in the flickering light of the candles which she'd lit. She was wearing only a thin silk robe. She'd removed her smallclothes earlier. Slowly she untied the sash which kept it closed and dropped it to the floor. The silk spoke its language as it fell around her. Every part of her was exposed to him-her breasts grown large with pregnancy, the gentle sloping of her stomach, her thighs made more womanly. She ran her fingers across her breasts, lightly brushing against her areolas. Her nipples were hardening, standing alert against the softness of her teats.

"Rub them." Sandor growled at her, his own cock growing hard as he watched her. She smiled at him with eyes made mischievous which turned suddenly blissful as she ran her fingers around her nipples, pulling and rolling them for her husband to watch. She bit her lip to hold back a light moan while she cupped and fondled herself, lifting her tits as she kneaded them together. Gods, what a life you've returned me to.

She slowly approached him, still playing with her nipples. The command that her husband gave her to do this and the appearance of his subsequent erection made her suddenly wet and desperately wanting of him. When she approached him he took her by the waist and firmly yet carefully pulled her close, completely aware of her bulging tummy, and took one of her breasts into his mouth. He bit at it and sucked, rolling his tongue around her hardened nipple. She moaned lightly, keeping one hand on her breast while the free hand went below, exploring her sex. She rubbed herself gently, her cunt soaking her fingertips. She didn't notice that the hand rolling her nipple was suddenly wet, too.

Sandor noticed.

"Are you to feed me, little bird?" He asked in a low, rough voice. He spoke with her breast still on his mouth.

"I-I didn't know-"

"Gods, you're too perfect."

He began sucking at her breast deeply as her milk came out, dripping slowly. He squeezed her other breast until milk began flowing, tracing the curve of her perfect white orb. He groaned, pulling her down onto the bed. The madness of his desire couldn't move him to put himself into her and risk his child, so he only worked himself while she did the same. The madness of moving together and their desire came to a climax, and so did theyóhim nearly collapsing, she muffling her cries with her hand. He kissed her calmly, trying to regain composure as he wrapped his arms around her, falling asleep as quickly as he came.

I like living, he had time to think before passing into dreams.

Tomorrow he'd go to Bran. Tomorrow.

30. Jealousy

"Strike, girl!" Sandor yelled at Arya. She struggled against the weight of a sword much too large for her petite frame. She grunted and dragged it about her around the court yard, trying to force herself to lift it. She knew it was no use. Sandor wanted to laugh as he watched her wheel around in a circle, her brow covered in sweat despite the freezing temperature.

"I'm trying! You've given me a sword I cannot handle-I'm not used to fighting with something this big!"

"How shall you fight if you cannot use every weapon in an arsenal?" He shouted back at her, doing his best to sound steely.

She gritted her teeth and tried to pull the sword upwards again, nearly sending herself down. Rickon stood beside Sandor with his own long-sword on the ground. He'd intentionally given the children new practice blades that would be far too heavy to lift. He wanted to bolster their humility in fighting and not charge them with the zeal of overconfidence. That was the stuff that got men murdered and turned them into wild beasts with no sense of self-preservation.

"If you can't strike I'm sure that your sister can make use of you. She always has embroidery and sewing projects that you could help her with."

"I don't want to sew!"

"Then pick up the blade and strike, little girl."

Arya tried once again, her face red. She pulled and pulled as much as possible. Sandor wouldn't relent. The girl would be a better fighter than any white-cloak in the realm once her was done with her.

She cried out and the sword completely left the ground for a moment before she dropped it, crashing onto the ground. He smiled before berating her again. Seven hells and heavens, this little girl will be a brilliant fighter one day.

0

The weeks passed in the same way-Sandor would wake up before the sun and wake Rickon, taking care to dress him warmly and take him out to the front of the house. He meant to begin training him but they usually only ended up running about the Godswood, Shaggydog close on their heels. Sandor and Rickon would climb up trees and hurl snowballs at one another. Sometimes they would hunt for rabbits in the weak morning light. They'd eat smoked pork for breakfast and build things out of wood. He'd teach him things-how to mount Stranger without a saddle, how to use river rocks as whet stones, how to burp loudly. Boy things, man things, guy stuff. Sandor had formally adopted Rickon from Winterfell, much to Bran's contentment. The boy would always be a Stark and Sandor never insisted that he look to him as a father-he only wanted to maintain his happiness and relieve Bran of having to be a papa at such a young age-but Rickon had begun insisting on calling Sandor daddy, and would often slip up and call Sansa mamma. They'd quit trying to correct him.

After he'd exhausted Rickon they'd head inside and find Sansa awake, making a real breakfast. Her belly was growing wider daily and her homemaking skills were developing at an alarming rate. She'd taken to being a housewife like a fish to water. For such a highborn girl she seemed to truly enjoy being the mistress of her own home. A kitchen maid had begun coming down to teach her how to make things like bread and she now she was beginning to innovate for herself and soon wouldn't require any more help.

They'd eat and walk together through the Godswood to Winterfell, Sandor usually carrying Sansa through the high snow. Sandor would go and spend the morning with Bran, helping him through the business of trying to figure out how to properly restore numbers to the Northern Guard. Bran would often press Sandor about being officially knighted, and Sandor would find ways to wriggle out of the topic. He'd promised that he would be anointed, but never felt comfortable enough to actually go through with it. He'd find ways to bring up issues that needed addressing and discuss other subjects as quickly as possible. He thought the whole idea of being knighted at his age seemed ridiculous. He still couldn't bring himself to allow anyone to call him Lord, though that is what he was-and he didn't want to be called Ser either. He only wanted to be Sandor Clegane, or hell, The Hound to his men.

Sansa would spend time in the reception hall mending loads of clothing with a set of ladies and would hear the troubles of female smallfolk in an axillary chamber. Robb's Rebellion had left the North full of widows who needed all sorts of help-mending fences, building walls, defending land from Wildling packs-and she did her best to find solutions. Orphaned girls and boys were often brought into the halls, needing shelter and help. She wouldn't turn any of them away and was determined to grow Winterfell and the North back into a healthy Keep and Land. The boys, she determined, would be brought up to be knights-each honorable, not like the awful knights at King's Landing, and that the girls would be given educations and would learn to be Septas and nurses and ladies and good women and mothers. She'd find a way.

The rest of the afternoon would be spent out in the yards-he'd begun giving the Northern Guards drills, working them as hard as possible in the coldness of the snow. He'd end the day with instructing Arya and Rickon, and would walk home exhausted but happy.

He'd found himself having an awkward conversation with Maester Luwin one evening when the old man asked about how Sansa's pregnancy was coming along. Without thinking he let it slip that he was constantly worried about the child in Sansa's belly and Maester Luwin understood that he wasn't just referring to the overall safety of the child, but was discussing country matters. Sandor reddened with embarrassment when he was informed that with gentleness and care he could enjoy all matter of sexual fulfillment with his wife. He cringed, feeling like a boy who'd had a talk with his father.

For the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane was completely happy and content in his home.

0

Sandor walked slowly through the halls out to the yard, intending to speak to his wife for a moment before he met Arya and Rickon for their training. He heard her laugh, like the singing of a bird, followed by the voice of a man.

"Oh, you are charming! I did so look forward to meeting the lovely Lady Stark!" He exclaimed. Sandor stood still for a moment and felt his jaw tighten. This voice was unknown to him, and sounded as though it were cloaked in spun sugar. Without thought he strode into the chamber that Sansa spent her day in, embroidering with her ladies. All but two had gone home for the evening. Before them stood a Knight no older than twenty wearing glittering new armor. His hair was blonde and curling, his eyes as blue as a Lannister. And Sandor could plainly see that he was openly flirting with his thoroughly pregnant wife. He could feel his face getting hot and his fists clenching.

"May I help you?" Sandor barked at the Knight, who turned and looked at him sternly.

"May I help you, Ser." The Knight corrected. Sansa quickly reacted, setting down her embroidery and introducing the men to one another. She could feel an uneven rage building in her husband.

"Ser Andrew, please do make the acquaintance of my husband, Lord Sandor Clegane. Sandor, please meet Ser Andrew of house Whitelily. He has come to us all the way from Highgarden! Isn't that wonderful?" She smiled brightly, always chirping.

"Oh, good to meet you Lord Keylane. Oh wait, that isn't it, is it? I'm sorry, I've never heard of your house. Please, what was that name again?"

"House CLE-gane, you fucking imbicile. Or, if it pleases, The Hound. I'm quite sure you've heard of me."

Ser Andrew's eyes and Sansa's went wide at the same time. Sansa was shocked at how abrupt Sandor was being-she'd grown so used to him being good natured that she was taken aback. Ser Andrew, on the other hand, was suddenly very nervous.

"My lord, please do accept my apolo-"

"I'm sure the Lord of Winterfell would be pleased to greet you. Unless you plan on mending with the ladies I suggest you leave here and go fetch and attendant to take you to him. I wouldn't want to have to test your gleaming new armor on such a cold night. Little Bird, I'm going to fetch Arya. I'll come later to escort you home."

He turned on his heels and paced out the door. He had to leave quickly to keep himself from removing the head on this wretched, gleaming knight.

0

Sandor pulled a much smaller, much easier blade out from the armory cabinets and hurled it towards Arya. She ducked quickly to avoid getting smacked in the head by it. Rickon had been too tired to practice tonight so he waited and took a nap with Shaggydog in the stables. It would just be the Hound and Arya tonight.

"Watch where you throw things!" She shouted, annoyed.

"Watch where you stand you little mutt!" He yelled at her. "Pick up the damned sword and hit, you little buggering snot!"

Arya rolled her eyes and pulled the sword up by the hilt, smashing it into a practice pole with all her might.

"Harder!"

She kept crashing into the wooden knight, sending wood chips flying. She hit and hit until Sandor came and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back.

"Good. God'sóI wish that thing were a real knight." He laughed, grabbing the sword from her hands.

"Why?"

"I'd like to see the little Wolf Girl make a good kill."

"I'd like to kill something, too."

"Aye. In enough time you'll do more killing. You need to learn more, until then. You're good at hitting and sneaking around like an assassin, but you're shit at combat defense. I could unarm you in a second and slit your throat before you noticed. You fight too much like a hired killer, not like someone who'd live in battle."

"I would do well in battle! A Braavosi fighter can survive anything."

"All men can die, Arya. I know for certain you know that."

She sighed and scowled. Sandor went and took a seat and she followed him and sat at his feet. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms, clearly annoyed and pensive all at once.

"What is on your mind?" She asked him, suddenly curious.

"Ser Andrew of Lilytrope, or whatever." He spit out, quite annoyed.

"Oh, that Highgarden man who showed up today? He and his men were welcomed, I think."

"By your sister. I didn't see him all day."

"Ha! A real Ser around Sansa. You must be thrilled!" She laughed at him.

"Would you like to see how good your assassin skills are, girl?" Sandor was suddenly laughing at her. For a moment she smiled at him. There was a silent accord that grew in between them out of nowhere. "What do you think?"

"There goes your Knightly honor-though you're no Knight, Sandor. I don't care what anyone says, you'll never be one. But I don't think I like Knights, either." That was the first time Arya didn't insist on calling him the Hound or Dog or her favorite insult, Mutt Man.

"And you'll never be a lady." The two shared a laugh. Sandor suddenly realized that the sun was sinking and that it was time to go in. The earth was suddenly cold.

"Heyóisn't that him? With Sansa?"

Sandor stood quickly and groaned quite audibly. Ser Andrew was escorting Sansa to the yard, his arm supporting her as she walked over ice-slicked cobble stones. Arya followed Sandor as he rushed towards her, his eyes made foul and black with rage. The smile on Sansa's face washed away, and he realized that once again, she wouldn't look at his face.

31. A Knight's Honour

"Why haven't you waited for me to escort you home?" Sandor asked her impatiently. He felt the tendrils of rage wrapping around him, choking his breathe. Don't do anything stupid in front of her. Don't fucking do it. He gave her a stony look and waited for her to acknowledge him. She was clearly blushing and looking at her feet, refusing to look him in the face. Why the fuck won't she look at me?

"Lord Clegane," Ser Andrew started, doing his best to clearly annunciate the words, "I insisted that I escort Lady Sansa to you. I didn't mean to offend."

"He wasn't asking you!" Arya butted in quickly, taking her blade and poking the air in his direction with it.

"Arya!" Sandor and Sansa shouted at her immediately-Sansa with an angry voice, Sandor because he had to. Ser Andrew was aghast.

"Sansa? Why?" Sandor asked in a much softer voice. She looked up at him with sad eyes.

"I only wanted to make our guest comfortable. He went and saw Bran and he suggested that we all dine together tonight to make Ser Andrew feel more welcomed- And you and Arya are just being so mean- I just thought that he could walk me out here so we could go and dine together-"

Sandor rolled his eyes in time with Arya. His jaw tightened as it did when he felt annoyed. Sansa was being such a proper Little Bird-and this time it wasn't enjoyable or cute. He wanted to get Rickon and drag Sansa home and lecture her about the nature of Knights, and was now stuck having to eat dinner with the creature. He had to bite his tongue so as not to make a scene. He swore he wouldn't make an ass of himself, no matter how jealous he felt about this graceful, pretty boy Knight and how silly Sansa was acting around him.

"Fine. Ser Andrew, I'll take my wife. Arya, lead him to the big hall and for the God's sakes don't act foolish."

"Why me?"

"The Others take you, girl. Shut your mouth and go."

Arya slammed her practice blade on the ground and tried to lead Ser Andrew away.

"Put the fucking blade away first!" Sandor shouted at her. His angry energy had to be loosed in some way. Arya could at least take it. She was more of a man than this delicate boy parading in his Knight's armor. She pulled the blade up and rushed it back into the armory, shoving it into a cabinet. She was mumbling under her breath. When she finally walked away with Ser Andrew she turned and shoved her tongue out at Sandor, making an obscene gesture with her hands.

Sandor tried not to laugh.

As soon as Arya turned the corner Sansa began crying.

"Why are you so hateful?" She sobbed, wiping her face with her sleeve.

"You've always been glad for it before."

"Well I'm not today. He's come with a proposal to make for Bran. His father wants to offer the young Lady of Whitelily to an engagement with Bran. They're the same age and she sounds lovely-"

"No. No. He's to dine, sleep and leave in the morning. No. No one is going to try and control Bran with little ladies. No. He is too young. This father sent this Knight because he wants to join houses and take control of Winterfell. Absolutely not."

"How do you know?" She sniffled.

"I know these things. Little Bird, listen to me. Listen good. No one is using Bran. Bran will find a good wife in his own time. I'm not having anyone from Highgarden in the South try to sway him. It's disgusting. This is a power play against your home and the Stark name. I've seen it."

"When did you see anything?"

"Little Bird, I saw it with Cersei and Tywin. I saw it with you. I stood by in silence while a thousand things like this happened—and you will listen to me as will Bran. Don't you try to stop it, either. And for heaven's sake do not spend any more time alone with Ser Andrew. There is something wrong with him."

"Oh for the sake of the heavens!"

"My love-please." Sandor held out his hand to hers. She placed hers upon it and he drew her in, tightening the cloak that she wore against the cold. He used his hands to warm her up. "I cannot keep you safe when I am not around. I cannot do anything if you won't listen to me. You've become too accustomed to being around good people in the North. This man is the South. Remember what I dragged you away from. Little Bird, they are liars. Remember."

"Then why did you let Arya alone with him?"

"Because Arya could kick his Lily ass quicker than you could sing a song, Little Bird."

"She's such a little animal- You are only encouraging her."

"I should hope so." Sansa allowed Sandor to kiss her on the head and he told himself that he felt better. Though it wasn't true. He scooped Sansa off of the icy stones and carried her off to look for Rickon who was sleeping in a stable. He wouldn't let anyone tell Rickon to bathe tonight. He hoped that he would smell awful-offending Ser Pansy would make Rickon happy, too.

0

Arya was in a fresh mood over dinner, as was Rickon. The two children behaved abhorrently, hurling pieces of food across the table towards one another. Sansa busied herself with trying to force the two of them to stop, and Sandor only half-heartedly admonished them. Bran was in a low mood himself-he was concerned about a crop yield number that he'd heard from Maester Luwin and spent most of the dinner picking at a side of Mutton, offering most of it to Summer who snoozed at his feet. He was also annoyed that Hodor and Osha weren't allowed to eat at the table while Ser Andrew was their guest. Ser Andrew sat at the position of honor and tried to make conversation, despite the chaos at the table.

"My dear lady, is dinner always so lively at this Keep?" He smiled, trying his best.

"Oh, no, everyone is just too excited-the children are thrilled to have had company, is all."

"Daddy! Arya smashed me in the face. I told her if she did that I was going to punch her!" Rickon interrupted, a lump of potatoes on his eye. Sandor began cleaning his eye, pulling the boy onto his lap.

"Arya for fucks sake-"

"Lord Clegane, language!" Maester Luwin corrected. Sandor just shrugged. He was as pleased as the children to be ruining Ser Andrew's evening. If he couldn't knock him into the dirt, he would just allow the Winterfell children to act like monsters.

"Lord Clegane, I wasn't aware that you had other children. I thought Sansa was your first wife, am I mistaken?"

Sandor, irked, didn't reply. Let little bird do the chirping.

"Oh, no, Ser Andrew, he's my youngest brother. Our parents died and he was still in need of parenting. Sandor, my Lord Husband, took him in. They are quite a pair."

"Yes-" Ser Andrew'eyes went vague. "If Bran would marry the young Lady of Whitelily Rickon and Arya could be sent South and be given proper educations and a good upbringing." Sansa cringed when he said this.

"Repeat that last statement, dainty Lord." Sandor turned his head and starred Ser Andrew down. The Knight tried to look Sandor in the face yet couldn't help turn his eyes away from his scars. Sansa placed a gentle hand on Sandor's arm, but knew that nothing would help. She sat in between the two men and could only brace herself for whatever was to happen next. Arya and Rickon went silent and Bran looked up, suddenly snapped into the conversation.

"I said that the children could have a decent upbringing. I didn't mean to offend-my Lord is too sensitive. I only meant to say that there is no proper society here."

Bran interrupted, not wanting to see the inevitable blood that this topic would bring.

"Ser Andrew, please refrain from commenting on the society we keep in the North. My family has done its best to regroup and maintain itself. Sandor is my brother now and he takes care of us. My brother Robb and my mother died because my Father was murdered in the South. I shall not have the virtues of the South extolled in the North." He said quietly, yet firmly.

"My Lord, please understand- I don't mean to offend."

"Please, you have said enough. Maester Luwin, please see that an attendant is brought for Ser Andrew at once. I shall have Hodor take me to bed. I do not feel well. Ser Andrew, please accept my apologies, I believe that the night is finished."

Ser Andrew sat with a look of disgust on his face-its pretty features had become gnarled into a sneer.

Sandor raised his cup to him and took a big swig of Dornish Sour before getting up from the table, pulling Rickon up with him.

"Arya, do you want to stay with us tonight or stay here?"

"May I come with you?" Sandor was surprised at the way she suddenly became very polite.

"Why yes you may." Sansa replied. Clearly she was the only one who was hurt. She took a great deal of pride in her manners and was very sullen to have them rebuked by such a refined personality.

Sandor took Sansa's hand and took her away from the table, not looking back at Ser Andrew. On the way out he stopped to have a word with one of the Northern Guards who stood watch outside of the door.

"See to it that there are at least twenty men every hour outside of Bran's room and ten outside of Maester Luwin's. I will run no risk of having a problem with this Knight. He is not to be admitted any access to him without me present. He is to leave by the morning."

"My Lord."

That night Sandor couldn't sleep at all. He felt a great amount of unrest. He kept his hand over Sansa's belly to shield it, but couldn't help but worry. The babe was due within a matter of weeks. He thought for a moment of the things that he had promised Sansa when he married her-that he would never hold him to their marriage. He was so desperate to be worthy of her love that he hadn't considered the impossibility to ever let her go. As maddening as her behavior had been today he couldn't imagine ever having to let her go. He'd sooner die.

0

The four walked back in the morning snow, two direwolves trailing behind them. When Arya was around the direwolves she would become sulky from missing her own wolf Nymeria. Sansa secretly hoped that another direwolf would find the Elder House and attach itself to Arya. Sandor hoped that Ser Andrew had departed.

0

Sansa sat in the room, waiting for her ladies to arrive. Sandor had given her a kiss before he departed with Rickon and Arya in tow. Sansa sat in the quiet and felt very guilty for having acted in such as awful way around her husband. After all, despite his shortness in manners he was the epitome of a good Knight and husband. He was gentle and took after the children and was always kind to her and thoroughly generous. He was the perfect knight, she thought with a sigh. She promised herself that she would make it up to him tonight-and she knew just the way. She closed her eyes and began to think of her husband, imaging his hands and his mouth. She wanted to get up and go to him when a there was a knocking on the door.

"Yes?" She asked meekly. No one ever knocked at the doors in Winterfell-her ladies knew that they were always welcome with her at any time. She stood up quickly. The door opened and Ser Andrew walked in, looking harried.

"My lady, I just wanted to wish you off."

Sansa felt suddenly nervous. She remembered what Sandor told her about being alone with this knight. She regretted that she had let Arya take Lemon to play with for the afternoon.

"I'm sorry that there was awkwardness last night. My husband is very protective."

Ser Andrew closed the door behind him, positioning his body before it.

"That's just it, my Lady, you cannot tell me that you love that beast."

"Ser Andrew, please leave."

"No." He threw back his cloak to reveal his blade. "I can defend you, my lady. I've heard of your marriage. It isn't even valid in the South. I know that he has raped you and is forcing you to have a child. I know that he is trying to keep Winterfell to himself. I can have my father's men ride up here and free you. I could take Winterfell in his place, you could be a real lady again-"

"Ser, please. I do love my husband. I was not raped."

"He is a Dog. He went craven and took you. Everyone in the South knows. You don't have to lie to me." He moved away from the door, coming closer to Sansa. She wanted to scream but was very, very frightened.

"Why are you still here?"

"My men rode out of the Keep. I turned back when the Northern Guards thought that we had completely departed. My lady, I wasn't just coming for Bran. You've a more legitimate claim to Winterfell. Such a beauty shouldn't be forced to lie with dogs-"

He took her by the arms and pulled at her. She was very disgusted and felt like she was about the throw up. Oh Gods help me. Sing Little Bird. Sing like Sandor always tells you. Oh Gods, please send Sandor up here. I have been such a fool.

"My lord, my husband might come in. Please. He is a very jealous man."

Without a word Ser Andrew placed his hand on Sansa's face. Without thinking she slapped it away. The gentleness in his face was immediately gone. There was no warning when his hand flew across her face. The pain shocked her and was a terrible reminded of what she had left behind. She instinctively placed her hands across her belly and didn't allow her face to react.

"You stupid little cunt." His hand found its way to her throat, tightening around it. His other hand felt for his smaller blade. He worked wordlessly, using the blade to cut the front of her dress, while a raging fury filled his eyes. She could feel that the blade was pointed down at her stomach. She was nearly relieved when he used it instead to cut away at her bodice, revealing her breasts, and didn't plant it into her stomach.

"I could fuck you right now and kill you and no one would hear. I'd be long gone before your mutt husband found out. I could gather an army and come back and smash Winterfell. I could gut you and let your baby rot in the snow."

This got a reaction out of Sansa. She began crying, hot tears running down her face. She was sobbing. She shut her eyes and decided not to fight himóshe'd do anything to save her child. She knew that there was no helping her. Sandor would be out with his men doing morning drills. Rickon and Arya would be playing in the snow. Her ladies wouldn't arrive for another hour. It was hopeless. She wouldn't dare scream. She just kept her eyes tightly shut, hot tears squeezing out of them.

He ran a hand across her breast, squeezing it hard. It hurt badly. And then his hand went limp and she heard his blade crashing to the ground. She opened her eyes to see his having gone wide.

A blade was sticking out through the chinks in his armor. She moved back quickly and saw Arya standing behind him, her blade planted in his shoulder. Lemon stood snarling beside her. Sansa quickly covered herself and was shaking.

"Sansa, take his sword."

Sansa, hands trembling, grabbed it. Ser Andrew was breathing hard, his face filled up with fear.

"Please, please don't kill me-" He pleaded.

"Start walking." She growled at him. When he didn't move she twisted the knife ever so slightly, enough to make her intentions known. Sansa went and found a tunic and pulled it over herself.

"Sansa, put on a cloak. Put the sword to his throat. This man is taking a walk."

Sansa obeyed, and placed the blade across Ser Andrew's throat.

"Let's hope he doesn't bleed to death before Sandor sees him."

"Please, little girl, please, I have gold. Please, don't take me to him. Kill me instead. Or let me go. Please, I'll give you anything." Ser Andrew was begging.

"Shut the fuck up." She said simply. "Walk." Arya took her hand off of the knife in his shoulder blade, allowing it to dangle painfully, and took out a smaller Katar out of her belt loop. She pressed it into his back. "Sansa, keep the sword at his throat. You must."

Sansa nodded.

"If you run her direwolf will rip out your arm. But you'll survive. For a moment. I'm going to show Sandor that I have become a genius with a blade."

32. Execution

Sansa did a terrible job keeping the sword at Ser Andrew's throat as she and Arya forced him through the halls of Winterfell. Arya wouldn't let her stop, but tried not to yell at her for being so weak with the sword. Seven hells, at least get it near his throat! Even Lemon would have made a better swordsman than her sister.

Arya, on the other hand, felt proud of her work. She kept the blade stable in his shoulder, twisting it when he moved too slow or halted. His blood was running black and thick, his armor coated and turning bronze. She was pleased that she had delivered the blow in such a way that he couldn't fully bleed out-it would assure that he wouldn't die before she could deliver him to Sandor. She felt like one of his henchmen now and she liked it. He might not approve of Braavosi-style assassin techniques, but she did. She liked gripping the blade stuck into him-she liked twisting it when he faltered, the way it would make his body jolt in panic. She felt not a strain of mercy within her body.

She was afraid that Sansa would get too weak to assist her and break down and beg for her to just go ahead and kill Ser Andrew. Of course she wouldn't be moved to do such a thing, but Sansa could still try and beg. That would add to her annoyances. Nothing was going to take away her opportunity to prove to Sandor that she knew a thing or two about blades. Maybe he'll quit trying to make me use those huge swords now. I hate huge swords.

"Gods!" Ser Andrew was pleading, crying. He smelled foul-Arya suspected that in his panic he must have shit himself. They always did, these fresh things which had never before been wounded. They always shit their pants. How humiliating, to shit because of a little girl. She felt embarrassed for him and angry that she had to walk behind him, smelling his excrement.

"Shut up! The Gods aren't listening!" She cried, bearing up on the blade. He screamed again, falling upon one knee.

"Sansa, give me the sword!" She cried, taking it from her sister.

She went and stood before Ser Andrew and pointed it into his eye.

"The next time you fall I'll take one." She barked at him, her own eyes like two burning coals. "Now get up."

Ser Andrew was a decidedly better walker after that. Arya kept the blade, deciding that Sansa was useless armed or disarmed. She should be the one that Sandor is training. Seven hells.

0

"What in the Seven fucking Hells happened?" Sandor screamed out, pulling his sword out of his sheath, cutting the air in front on him with an enraged flourish. Arya had instructed Sansa to find Rickon and send him to get Sandor who was out in the fields conducting morning drills. When he returned his shadow was that of several Northern Guards. Arya had brought Ser Andrew to the yard where Sandor gave her lessons and kicked the Knight's knees out. He sat upon his feet, his face screwed up from pain. Big tears streamed down his face, mixed with snot running into his mouth. He couldn't move anything in his upper body, so great was the aching from the sword still dangling from his shoulder blade.

"He was going to rape Sansa." Arya replied to him calmly, the last vestiges of adrenaline now out of her system. Now that she had delivered him to Sandor she felt an awful calm rush over her-like freezing water. It left her feeling sluggish and alert all at once.

"What?" Sandor made a face that no one, not even Sansa, had seen before. It was like looking into an abyss of pure hatred, Sansa thought. She had gone to sit and gather herselfóall of this couldn't be good for her baby. She felt sick, embarrassed, like a fool. Once again she had made herself open for an attack, once again someone had to come in and clean it up for her. Sandor looked at his wife who was once again sniffling, her face slick with tears as well. "What did he do to you?" He didn't make an effort to rush to her side or try to comfort her. He stood his ground. He knew that the first thing he touched was going to be broken in two.

"He-he came in and—I-he, he said—I-" She couldn't speak, the words simply refused to come out.

"He slapped her, took his blade and cut away her dress, and told her that he was going to rape her and cut your baby from her stomach and let it rot in the snow." Arya stepped in for her sister. "I saw everything. So I took my little blade and stuck him in the shoulder and dragged him down here for you to see."

"No! I didn't!" Ser Andrew pleaded. Without thinking Arya took the blunt side of his sword and whacked him across the back.

"He's lying."

"Where are your men?" Sandor growled between his teeth, moving closer to Ser Andrew. His body language didn't give away the core of his rage-any other man would be shaking. Sandor stood so firmly it was almost as though he were carved from stone. When Ser Andrew didn't respond he instructed Arya to turn the blade in his shoulder.

"They're outside of the Southern Gate! A mile out!" He screamed. "Please, mercy!"

Sandor turned and instructed the guards to ride out and kill every last one of Ser Andrew's men and bring back their horses and armor. "Leave the rest for the crows."

Sandor didn't want his guards to see what was about to occur. He didn't approve of torture and didn't want to give them the notion that it was an acceptable battle field practice. A few of the guards were hardly older than Arya and weren't nearly as seasoned. He couldn't encourage them to be vicious before they were effective. Hopefully taking out a few Highgarden men would prove to boost their morale.

"Sansa, I want you to watch this." He said calmly, gesturing for Arya to bring him Ser Andrew's sword.

"Arya, pull the knife from his shoulder." He instructed, his voice almost a whisper. Sandor crouched down so that he was face to face with this Knight.

"You touched my wife?" He asked him, as calmly as he could manage.

"No, I swear it- She tried to take me when I bid her good-bye. She's a slut-she-"

Without word Sandor took the Knight's sword and planted it into his thigh, wrenching it around with a grunt. Ser Andrew's wailing sounded like a pig being slaughtered. Sandor glanced at Sansa and saw that she wouldn't be able to handle much more-she looked as though she would pass out.

"Arya, show me the hand that Ser Andrew used to touch my wife."

Arya grabbed his right hand and held it up.

"Give me your small blade, child." He instructed. "Sansa, turn away." _I won't have her fainting on me._

Arya pulled the blade from Ser Andrew's shoulder and handed it to Sandor, absolutely rapt as she watched Sandor drag the bloody blade across his skin and then underneath the flesh of the hand, pulling up his skin in the process.

"This is how you flay skin, girl. I don't ever want to see you doing this without good reason. It is almost always better to give a clean death." Ser Andrew's crying was no longer affecting Sandor. He didn't even notice it. This disappointed him; he'd hoped that inflicting great pain on this Knight would somehow satiate his appetite, make the huge swells of rage within him abate. He realized that killing Ser Andrew slowly or quickly would make no difference-he hadn't been there to protect Sansa or his child. He was angry at himself and extremely grateful that Arya had been there.

"Gods be damned this boy puts up no fight." Sandor said. He shrugged. "Arya, I never want you to torture a man again. It makes you sick after too much of it. It turns your into a maniac. Just kill, let it be done." He handed Arya her small blade and stood up.

"You defended your sister. You get to kill him." He offered, searching her face to make sure that she was ready. If he even saw a second of hesitation in her eyes he would have rescinded. But he found nothing but eagerness.

"Mercy, mercy—please—mercy-" The Knight pleaded, his voice falling on deaf ears. Neither Sandor nor Arya paid him much attention.

Without so much as another word Arya spun away from Sandor, drawing her small blade across Ser Andrew's throat, silencing all of his cries. He bled out quickly, almost automatically flopping face down onto the ground, landing with a strangely empty thud.

Sandor turned to look at Sansa who was clearly distraught. He was enveloped in anger. He didn't know what he was going to do about her-but he had an idea.

33. Sudden Change

Sandor spent the rest of the afternoon sitting with Bran and Maester Luwin. Bran nearly had a panic attack when he discovered what had happened-he was fearful not because of what nearly happened to his sister, but because he was afraid of the repercussions that the execution might have politically. He didn't blame anyone and knew that it had to happen-but nothing could make him calm down. In his disgust and anger Sandor had sent Sansa away with Arya. He was afraid of the myriad of things that would come out of his mouth and hoped that he could calm himself throughout the day. It was useless. Before night fell he had to ask Arya to keep Rickon and Lemon with her for the nightóhe didn't want Rickon asleep in bed, or to piss off the direwolf if Sandor completely lost his senses. He was becoming afraid of himself. Of course, he knew that he would never hurt her-he just didn't know what he'd break or what he'd say.

He considered having Sansa stay with Arya for the night-something, anything. He couldn't shake the massive weight of ire that rested upon his shoulders. And what the fuck would avoiding her do? Seven Hells, she'll probably just wind up getting assaulted by someone else. Fucking little birdóit was easier when she was back in her cage.

Arya looked relieved when Sandor came and ended her shift of watching over Sansa-she was clearly a wreck-killing a man was easier for her than contending with the tears of a lady. Arya, in a strange moment of sisterly kindness, deigned to sit with her and try to work on embroidery. At least Sansa didn't chide her for work that looked like complete and utter shit. Even Hodor could have been more elegant with a needle. The calming activity seemed to smooth out Sansa's nerves for a time. Arya thought maybe the entire storm had passed until Sandor came into the room to take Sansa back home-she burst out into tears as soon as he looked at her.

Arya gave Sandor a "She's your problem now" look and shook her head. He helped bundle her up and took her back home, hardly saying a word.

Sandor was gruff for the entire walk, feeling awkward that he carried Sansa for most of way home but he couldn't bear to look at her. She was warm and full in his arms, her pregnant belly grown large. She'd changed dresses and was once again looking like herself, not nearly as disheveled as earlier. It made Sandor mad that in his arms the weight of her felt so lovely, her warm body seemed to be everything charming in the world. He could feel her breathing, the rising and falling of her lovely breasts against him as he walked, the warm air that she breathed on his own neck. She kept her arms around his neck and nestled her perfect head with her gorgeous hair into him. Gods, did it make him mad.

At home he set her down carefully, minding every detail about her while a storm raged within him. Instinct told him to drag her by her hair into their room, lock her in there, and forbid her to ever see the light of day again. Break things-smash her pretty little room to bits, decimate her world. Every impulse that he had led him to that kind of restrictive violence-brutalize her, scare her, forbid her from everything. Weaken her. Of course he knew where those feelings originated from-it was the only thing that he really knew to do. Instinct be damned, he would never be able to do it. From the second that he'd laid eyes on her, she'd done nothing tantalize his spirit, keep him in a place of suspension. If he raised his hand to frighten her it would only land to strike away anything which could harm her. Did she have no knowledge of why he dragged her away from her previous life? Could she possibly imagine that he would have brought her here so that she could be hurt? Seven fucking hells.

Sansa took Sandor's hand and gently wrapped her fingers around it, calmly leading him to their bedroom. As soon as they were within the room he wrenched his hand away and turned to stare her down. He couldn't put words to his thoughts-they were scattered about his mind like so many leaves falling off a tree in autumn. As hard as he tried to collect himself, he couldn't focus.

Sansa watched him and saw the black rage fill his eyes. She knew this dark, insidious anger that pulsed inside of him. She knew she'd been a fool, that she was the inspiration for this, and felt every ounce of it. It dawned on her that all of her crying had been ridiculous and unnecessary, and for once in her life she wanted to be strong. She'd made herself look like an idiot. Sandor had dragged her away from King's Landing to shield her from danger, and her own stupid trusting had put her back into that position. Even worse, she had treated Sandor poorly the day before-she'd bought into the lie. She'd been duped, had. _Oh Gods, I even dishonored my husband._

She wouldn't turn away, but gave herself the courage to stare into his eyes and try to absorb all of the hate that was in them. She was determined never to refuse his council and to never be so blind again. She shouldn't have been the one who permitted the Knight into her company in the first place. And now all she wanted to do was to prove to Sandor that she wouldn't do something like this ever, ever again.

"My love?" She asked, her voice barely a squeak, "My love, I've been very bad-"

Seven fucking hells, you have been bad. His face twitched. She was going to do itóshe was going to break him before he could reprimand her. I'll be damned.

"Sansa-you are never, ever to invite strangers into Winterfell, your company, anything. You must promise me—promise-that you will listen to me. You'll trust me. I can't lose you. I cannot. If Arya hadn't come to your aid you'd be dead. Dead, Little Bird. What the fuck would I do?" He spoke through gritted teeth. He tried his best not to scream at her, to not begin breaking the room apart. He was now visibly shaking-his hands clenched into tight fists.

Sansa knew that there was nothing that she could say to him that would make him feel any better-and she knew that he was completely right to say what he was saying. She didn't want to chirp. She wanted to make everything up to him.

"Darling, I submit to every word that you say-" She whispered, gently fluttering her eyelashes. The fear of the events of the day were culminating within her and making her feel especially loving to her husband. Despite the awful terror of everything, she was suddenly needing him with every thread of her being.

"You submit to me?" He growled, his entire body relaxing. His heart wrenched. He was prepared to finally show her the extent of his rage, and within minutes he was losing his nerve. Is this the shit that the Septa's teach little girls? How to wrap a man around their finger? Or is this the shit that I taught her-singing to avoid punishment? He was so confused.

"Yes." She breathed, suddenly very excited by the way he was looking at her. It reminded her of her first moments with him-the way Sandor would almost look through her, his eyes full and heavy. The way he would oscillate between trying to scare her and trying to shield her, the forbidden wall that stood between them. She could feel the remnants of that first set of longing, the way he hid it under his aggression. She began silently undressing herself, peeling away layer after layer of cloth, removing yet another boundary. She maintained eye contact the entire time, studying the way he regarded her. She realized that she lived for the way he starred at her, marveling at her every move. He couldn't feign anger or hold onto his rage when she gave herself to him. And as sorry as she was she didn't wish to see his rage. Not only did it still scare her, but it broke her heart. She turned away from him and leaned against the bed, wearing only her small clothes. She pressed her bottom towards him, batting her eyes. He knew exactly what she wanted.

You really are a dog, he thought to himself, watching her as she arched her back forward. He felt guilty for feeling so lascivious at what he considered to be an inappropriate time. He was floored by her-she'd removed her clothes and removed his ability to let loose his rage. Is this what wives are for? Removing everything? She looked so impossibly woman-her body was full with child, yet she still maintained her naivete, her little-girl-lost mask. He knew that he knew better, but was against his will walking towards her. Perhaps her lesson has already been learned?

His hands were soon moving on her waist, removing what was left covering her. He moved his hand on her arse, feeling her as she pressed against him.

"I didn't listen to you. I've been so very, very bad. I thought that I was going to be punished-" She said to him. He wasn't stupid. She knew that she was off the hook. Sandor couldn't help but wonder why, then, she kept reminding him that she'd been bad. "I've been truly, truly awful. How will I ever learn?"

Sandor wanted to recoil-he realized exactly what she was angling at. He finally gave up. It was hopeless. His wanting her had trumped the duty he felt in reprimanding her. He lightly smacked her bum and then turned her towards him and it was all over-he was completely lost. Being ever so mindful of his child and of her body-he fucked her. This was the first time that he could categorize their lovemaking as fucking-but he did. He had to relieve all of the tension that he felt. And he succeeded, falling asleep almost instantly after he found his relief.

He'd been asleep for only an hour when he felt little hands on his chest, pushing him awake.

"What, Little Bird?" He asked, trying to pull his arms around her.

"I need you to wake up. Now." She sounded completely alarmed.

"What's happened?" He sat up and tried to make himself alert.

"Everything is soaked. And I'm in pain."

He felt her side of the bed-it was drenched. He was suddenly completely panicked.

"What does this mean?" He asked. "Did I hurt the baby?"

"No-I think I'm having it."

"Fucking hell, Little Bird, Maester Luwin said it wasn't due for another three weeks-"

"He must have been wrong."

"I'll go get him. I'll be back within an hour-" He offered. He knew it was no good.

"Sandor, you're going to have to deliver it. I don't think there's time." She said, whimpering.

34. Birth

The room was spinning for both Sansa and Sandor-Sansa in immense pain, Sandor in immense worry. He had to keep propping her up and changing her positions. One moment she could hardly sit up, the next lying down was too awful. She began throwing up at regular intervals-the vomit was the only thing that made her feel better. Sandor regretted leaving Rickon and Arya back at Winterfell-at least one of them could have gone for Maester Luwin. He felt panicky and like an asshole, a complete and total moron. Every time Sansa heaved into the basin he'd dragged into their room for her, he felt that he'd let her down.

He'd been posted guard when Cersei had given birth to Joffrey, small good that it did him. He remembered screaming and the clamoring of women-and Jaime Lannister rushing to her side-but nothing else. Sansa's moon-blood had frightened him enough, but he had no working knowledge of what to do during a delivery. At least Sansa had seen Rickon and Bran's births and knew some small bit about what was to happen. She had to tell him what to do.

She, though, struggled even with that. The formation of words was extremely difficult. The pressure on her spine felt excruciating, a sharp and alien pain that was so intense in made her feel as though she was going to black out. Mostly she wished that she could. The waves of pain swept over her, knocking her senses out. There was nothing that Sandor could offer her that could dull the pain. He was quietly begging the house, the ghosts of the Stark family, whatever forces were keeping the universe together, to protect his wife and their soon-to-be child. As much as he tried to push it out of his mind, he thought about men who had their women die in childbirth. He couldn't even consider it, the idea was such a nightmare.

He could only try to work around her, adjusting her so that she didn't completely collapse in pain. He couldn't tell if a few minutes had passed or if days had gone by since her water broke-his mind was in such a haze his consciousness had been dulled out only to instincts and emotions. When Sansa would cry out he would feel completely reduced and frantic. He'd give anything to make the pain stop, to give her some kind of relief. As much as he'd fall all over himself to protect her from the slightest discomfort, he could not now.

After what seemed like years, a calm rushed over Sansa's face. In the midst of the agony of childbirth, she'd found some solace. She looked him in the eyes and whispered to him that it was here.

When Sandor pulled the child from her something strange and completely unexpected occurred-he began violently crying, a deep and thorough episode that lasted only moments, but touched him to his core. The child that he held seemed to be the only thing in the universe. It was a small, crying and discolored thing that looked more like a raisin than a person, but he was deeply in love with it. He had to give it to Sansa so that it could begin suckling. He laid his hand on her stomach, thinking that it was all over.

It became clear to him that another child was still coming out.

35. Twins

Sansa fell asleep quickly from her exhaustion-the sun was beginning to rise below the treeline, the silence of the morning was all around. Sandor, though, was wide awake-his two arms were full. Two twin babies laid in his arms, sleeping as soundly as their mother. His heart was beating like a drum as he gently held the both of the, his eyes alternating between the two of them. He felt a strange, horrid pain go through his soul-when they moved even an inch he would gasp, so filled with love was he. He would bend to kiss their bald heads, place his lips on their little downy scalps and murmur at them-he'd never made a baby noise in his life, but he couldn't help but coo at them. He imagined that there was no father in Westeros, or the world for that matter, that was filled with more pride than he.

Sansa had been too weak to bathe them and swaddle them, so he had done it himself-he'd washed their birth fluids off of their little bodies, careful and shaking and terribly afraid of making them uncomfortable or getting water in their noses or eyes. His hands were shaking then, as they were now. He wrapped them up in blankets, putting them together so they didn't cry. They didn't seem to like being separated. He worried that he put too many blankets around them, and then worried that he'd put too little. Their little feet and fingers were so delicate that he worked their blankets around them with a surgeon's precision. He knew nothing of children or what they'd do-and now with Sansa asleep he could only hope that he was doing what was correct.

He began thanking the Gods, old and new, repeating a prayer that surprised him. His mind was filled with too much love, and he thought of all of the agonizing things in the world that he had witnessed. Whatever would happen in this lifetime, he swore to himself that he would protect his children against all horrors-his two sons. Sons, his sons, his own flesh and blood, his own children asleep while he sat quite next to their mother. Sansa was too weak to think on naming them; she had energy enough only to suckle them and hold them, feeling what he imagined was the same overdose of joy that ripped apart his insides. Until the morning came his children were still unnamed, but still perfect and bright and beautiful.

His first boy opened his eyes and looked straight into Sandor, gurgling. A bit of spittle came out of his mouth that Sandor quickly wiped away with the edge of a blanket. The child looked deeply into his eyes, as though he knew him.

"I'm your papa." He whispered at him, smiling from ear to ear. The scars and the look of him didn't frighten the babe. He only contentedly blinked and yawned, closing his eyes again, going back into some dream. Sandor began thinking of the cradle he'd finish tomorrow, the toys he'd begin building them-the blankets he'd have brought in, the dolls that Sansa had sewn waiting at Winterfell to be brought down. He thought of Rickon, who he wanted back in the house so badly. He thought of the awful day that had transpired before, and of how he was going to teach Sansa to learn to defend herself like Arya. He wanted Bran and Arya to meet them as soon as possible, he wanted Maester Luwin to come and inspect them and help with the children. He even wanted Osha to meet the children-and he wanted Sansa to get a nurse to assist her in whatever she'd need help with.

She rolled onto her side, a tense look set across her face. The childbirth had been needlessly painful, and he would blame himself for that. His sons made him feel as though he loved her more than before- if that was even possible.

He began to rock the babies in his arms, so terribly in love with them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Short, but hopefully sweet. This was my first stab at writing a story (like, ever), and I hope that I made some people smile. This story brought me both happiness and misery, and I hope that it brought everyone who read it something. I have had a lot of support through writing this, and it has meant everything. More than anything, I want to thank the readers who kept me going- especially JuliaAurelia. The story is finished, the first one that I have really and truly concluded. (One-shots non-withstanding). To those who loved it, thank you, and to all who have hated it, thank you too. Just to have it read by anyone has been a priviledge. It has changed the paradigm for me as a human and an artist (am I allowed to call myself that?)/ story thief (sorry G.R.R.M.). **

**Love,**

**Moa**

* * *

The sun rose over stony soil, the earth as quiet and still as a fairy realm. Orange whisps of light broke through the snowy tops of trees, casting pink beams through the leaves. Fresh snowfall made the trees seem like the Silent Sisters, wrapped up before entering a sept. In the distance a jay cried, and a branch snapped under the weight of snow.

The days passed steadily, the worst part of the winter still ahead- but not as fearsome. A good fire, heat, warmth- he'd always said he'd wanted to be away from the fires, but now he edged closer to the flame, his past a dent on his armor, no longer the break that would kill him. Brandon and Eddard slept soundly, their breath just a small note doting the air.

Rickon sat quietly, lacing a strap of leather through a boot, getting ready for the snows. He and Shaggydog had become unstoppable, spending their days in the woods, hunting down anything that moved. Sandor thought that the boy must be half Wilding, but kept the joke to himself. Sansa didn't much appreciate it. Sandor watched the boy, staying close yet encouraging him to learn everything, anything for himself. The four were out in the large room, three boys and one man. Truth be told he sometimes preferred the company of the children- he felt like he could make up for that which he did not have. Even as a small child Joffrey had shown some kindness, though that extinguished far too early.

Rickon finally finished putting on his boot and was soon heading out the door- sheepishly giving Sandor a half-hug, the kind of affection that boys showed to their elders. He accepted a ruffling of his hair, and was soon bounding out the door, his direwolf in tow. As soon as he was far enough away from the house he began to whoop like a mad child, howling and crying out. He'd inherited the soul of the North.

As far as politics goes, Sandor couldn't begin to guess what would happen. The future was hazy, an uncertain object hanging in the distance. He could only say that he'd found his home and would protect it and his family to the highest extent possible. Family, a word that still seemed odd when he uttered it- like a stone under the tongue. Even stranger to say was love, but he'd become less afraid of it. Because it was love, to whatever degree a man could love anything. He'd reached that apex, and yet was still astounded when he noticed that it grew rather than diminished.

He watched a flame leap and listened to the fire pop in the hearth. Sansa came out from the bedroom and kissed him quietly on his cheek. He'd quit noticing whether she kissed him on the ruined side or not.

He only felt her lips on him, like the sweetness of spring.


End file.
